The Plague We Live In (Part 6)

Painting by Arrington de Dionyso

I started imagining that bestial impulse. It had certainly been bestial. Unstoppable. Impossible to bridle. 
There is a side of the human being which is pure beast. A man knows that side only when the fury fulfils the moment which is impossible to escape. And he knows it only after the act has been released, only after the act is out of him.
The same moment he spots the reason for the act, he realizes that the act has removed the reason.
That act has come from a side completely unknown, a bestial side. A side he had never experienced before.
I imagined it like a burst of an explosion, an overflood of evil and alien energy which possessed him, like a fit, a seizure of daemons.
I started wondering if he had any chance to be excused for his violence.
Why was I asking myself that? Wasn't immoral to find a way to justify rape?
I had no idea. Maybe a man's grief is brother to anyone's grief.
It had to be this the reason... 
In this sense he and the victim were alike.
Paradoxically, I was creating empathy towards the executioner rather than the victim.
But was he at least aware of his crime? Most of the insane acts are said to have been committed fairly consciously.
I believe, that only after ejaculation he experienced the depth of the abyss. In the very moment of that devilish seizure, he was unconscious.

When he caught the girl by her full, hard and fleshy buttocks he finally felt the pleasure of the beast inside satisfied by that embrace, he had desired for so long, For many days, weeks, and many months. He forgot everything about the world, he was absurdly lost at the centre of that iron grip, et vertatur in belvam.
He was 58 and she was 13. She had the body of a woman and the mind of a child. He possessed a woman but insulted and sullied a kid. Forever.
The day of atonement for his crime he knew would come. And it came brought to him by circumstances. The arrest, the sentence, the prison ... a life transfigured by a moment of uncontrolled madness, whose origin laid in two overly full and hard buttocks of a little girl who was already a woman.
And his life ended hanging from the bars of the cell, dangling from a belt stolen somewhere in the prison infirmary.
There are secrets which can’t be told. Secrets you don’t even permit yourself to be revealed to yourself. Now and then the conscience of a man can be trapped in a burden of heavy craziness. And it becomes unconfessable the unrestrained power and the reason for that folly. 
The death of Alvaro in prison, in the Lukiškių Kalėijimas, had been so unexpected.
The last days of his life I thought he had time to rethink about that flame igniting his tragedy, like a long needle between his legs.
He had been kept in a dungeon in the underground. It was a clear message that his existence had to be cancelled from the visible world. And he knew that it was true.