I confess that I have killed 2
Dear reader, I have a little story for you — just something to warm up your engines before you dive headfirst into the pages of this second installment of “I CONFESS THAT I HAVE KILLED 2.”
And it goes like this:
It wasn’t revenge — it was vindication.
It was around six-thirty when I started the long walk back home, the kind of hour when daylight begins to rot at the edges and the city exhales all its filth into the air. I’d just left the apartment of a Venezuelan couple—nice folks, sharp, working as editors for small-time publishing houses. They lived somewhere near the belly of Buenos Aires, in that messy zone between the glamour of Palermo and the misery hiding behind every bright café sign.
I could’ve called a cab, sure. But standing out there, under that bleeding sunset, with the avenue crawling with junkies and fake beggars, didn’t seem smart. Those bastards aren’t homeless—they’re predators wearing rags, stray wolves pretending to be harmless. Some used to be convicts, others never even made it that far. Just human leftovers that the system forgot to sweep up.
They stare at you with those eyes that already died once, and you can tell they’d trade your life for the price of a bottle. Argentina breeds them like stray dogs now. The government lets them out—turns them loose again—then blames capitalism when the blood spills. You learn to walk with your eyes open here. The cops? They’re ghosts. They exist only when you owe them something.
So, I walked. Ten blocks, maybe more, through that trembling avenue that smelled like fried meat and piss, past neon lights flickering like dying hearts. My shoes tapped the pavement with that rhythm of a man who’s pretending he’s not afraid.
People talk about Europe like it’s some shining kingdom, but the truth is—Paris, Buenos Aires… same damn carcass, different perfume. The Seine stinks like the Río de la Plata; both rivers are graves for politicians and dreams. Civilization is just a prettier word for rot.
Anyway, I kept walking. I run sixty kilometers a week, so ten blocks didn’t mean a thing. But there’s something about certain streets that makes the skin behind your neck tighten, like invisible fingers brushing your spine. I saw them—two of them—watching me from across the street.
They thought they were clever, lurking between the shadows of shop windows, whispering in that broken slang that only the damned can understand. You know that moment when you feel you’re being hunted? Like your body knows before your brain catches up.
I stopped by a McDonald’s, went in, ordered a coffee. Sat facing the entrance. Let the warmth of the cup bleed into my palms while I watched the door.
They passed by twice. Maybe three times. The glass was tinted, reflecting the sunset, and they couldn’t quite see me—but I could see them. Their silhouettes, nervous, pacing. Two scavengers sniffing for the smell of fear.
And I laughed—quietly. Not because I found it funny, but because there was something pathetic about them. So small, so predictable. The world’s full of those men—broken toys pretending to be wolves.
That’s when I felt the weight of the choice pressing down on me:
— Call the cops, waste an hour waiting for a miracle.
— Call a few old friends, the kind that don’t ask questions.
— Or… have a little fun.
I chose the third option.
I finished my coffee, stood up, and walked to the bathroom. The mirror was cracked, stained with fingerprints. I looked at myself, took off my glasses, and whispered a line I always use when the air turns heavy—“Attention, mesdames et messieurs… dans un instant, on va commencer.”
Then I smiled. That’s the ritual, you see. A way to greet the darkness when it decides to walk beside me.
When I stepped outside, the street had changed. Same people, same lights—but everything felt quieter, heavier. The city had that scent it gets right before something bad happens, like hot metal and cheap wine.
I saw their reflections again in the shopfronts as I walked. Two shadows tracking me through the glare of neon and glass. I didn’t hurry. I let them believe they were in control.
And then—
I turned. Took a street I knew would eat the light whole. The kind that leads straight into the guts of Chinatown, where the air smells like rotten cabbage and death wears an apron.
That’s where it began.
I’d barely made it two blocks into that narrow street when the city changed shape around me. The glow of the avenue faded behind, replaced by the dirty yellow hum of flickering bulbs that hung from rusted wires like dying insects. The pavement was cracked, blackened by years of spilled oil, piss, and rain.
That’s when I felt it—the air shifted.
Like the city itself had taken a breath and was holding it.
I heard footsteps. Two pairs.
They weren’t hurrying; they didn’t need to. They thought I was prey.
The first one came out of nowhere. A blur of shadow and grease and bad teeth. He moved fast, too fast for a man that skinny, and before I could react, the cold kiss of metal touched my back.
“Give me everything, asshole,” he said. His voice was sandpaper—hoarse, desperate. “Phone, jacket, cash. Shoes too.”
I didn’t move.
I’ve heard that kind of voice before—the kind that belongs to men who already believe they’re dead.
So, I spoke quietly. “Relax,” I said. “You’ll get what you want.”
He was twitching, shaking, eyes full of that cheap chemical madness that burns holes in your soul. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven, maybe younger. His skin was gray, sickly, like it had forgotten how to hold blood. There was a small tear at the corner of his lip, crusted with something dark. I saw his pupils, tiny pinpricks in a sea of yellow.
He smelled like sweat, rust, and fear.
Behind him, his friend lingered in the shadows, watching. I could feel his stare like a knife pressed against the side of my neck.
I handed over my phone first, slow and deliberate. Then the wallet.
The man’s hand trembled as he grabbed them.
He kept the gun pressed against me, right between my ribs.
“Shoes,” he said again.
“No,” I answered. Calm, steady. “You’ve got what you came for.”
And that’s when it happened.
Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe just the cosmic stupidity of man—but he pulled the trigger.
A dry click.
A hollow snap, like a throat clearing.
No bullet.
Just sound and panic.
For a second, we all froze. The echo of that misfire bounced off the walls, then dissolved into silence.
And then they ran. Both of them bolted down the street, vanishing between the buildings like roaches scattering from the light.
I didn’t chase them. I just stood there, heart pounding, feeling that thin electric thread between life and death tighten, then snap.
It’s strange—how alive you feel right after you almost die. Every sound is sharper, every smell amplified. I could taste the city in my mouth: metal, smoke, decay.
I started walking again, slower this time. My hands still trembled, not from fear but from something deeper—something animal. That near-death itch under the skin.
Then, somewhere behind me, a train horn wailed. Long. Angry. The kind of sound that splits the sky open.
I turned my head and felt a pull in my gut. A whisper, soft but insistent: Go there.
I ignored it.
Then it came again. Go there.
So I went.
The sound of people shouting grew louder as I approached the station. A crowd had gathered, faces pale and eyes wide, circling something on the pavement.
And there he was.
One of them.
The same junkie who’d pressed the gun to my ribs. He was lying on the concrete, body twisted into a shape that didn’t belong to any living thing. His right arm bent backwards, his chest rising and falling like a dying animal.
The train had hit him.
His partner? Gone. Probably dragged under, turned into dust and red mist.
I pushed through the people, knelt beside the body. His hand was clutching my phone—intact, screen still glowing faintly with the reflection of the crowd’s horror.
Someone gasped when I took it back. Another voice snapped, “Hey! Don’t touch that! Wait for the police!”
The word police felt like a bad joke. Nobody believed in them anymore.
And then—then came that phrase. The one that stuck to my brain like a nail:
“Respect the dying.”
Respect.
That word did something to me. It tore something open. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the injustice, or the voice I’d been hearing all my life whispering from the dark corners of my skull.
That voice said, clear as day:
Finish it. End his misery.
He was still alive when I knelt beside him.
Barely.
Every breath came out like a whistle through broken glass. His chest rose, then stuttered. Blood gurgled up from his mouth, bubbling at the corners of his lips like soda fizz. His eyes rolled, one drifting toward me, the other locked on something far away—maybe the last flicker of the world he was leaving behind.
The people around us kept murmuring, circling, their voices a low, useless hum.
“Wait for the police.”
“Don’t touch him.”
“Respect the dying.”
Respect. That word again.
I don’t know what they expected me to do—stand there and admire the artistry of his suffering? Watch him drown in his own blood while his lungs begged for air?
No.
There are things worse than death, and I wasn’t about to let him experience them all.
So I leaned closer. I could smell him. The sharp, metallic scent of blood mixed with the sourness of fear and the cheap rotgut wine that still clung to his breath.
His hand twitched, tried to reach for me. I think he wanted help. Or maybe forgiveness. Maybe both.
That’s when the voice came back.
Not a whisper this time.
It was a command. A verdict.
End it.
And I did.
I covered his nose, pressed my mouth over his.
His skin was cold, slippery with blood. I felt him jerk beneath me, ribs snapping like sticks in a fire. His fingers clawed weakly at my face, scraping behind my ear before giving up completely.
The taste—God, the taste—was metallic, rancid, heavy with the stench of rot and iron. It coated my tongue, burned down my throat, filled me with a kind of hatred that felt almost holy.
His body shuddered one last time. Then it stopped.
No breath. No sound.
Just silence.
When I lifted my head, his eyes were open, frozen in that instant between terror and release. His face twisted into something that might’ve been laughter, or maybe it was just death playing one final joke.
Someone handed me a bottle of water. I don’t even know who. I stared at it for a while, then thought: Not yet.
I didn’t rinse my mouth. I wanted the taste to linger—a reminder of what filth feels like when it pretends to be human.
So I stood up, slowly, holding that bottle like a relic.
And as I walked away, no one stopped me.
No one said a word.
The police never came. They never do.
The city swallowed me back into its noise and lights, and by the time I found a taxi, the world was already pretending nothing had happened.
When I got home, I stepped out, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and spat the last of that bastard’s blood onto the pavement.
Then I looked up at the empty sky and said—
“One less ape.”
If the introduction caught your attention, don’t hesitate to request a copy.
Stories from the collection:
- What Goes Around Comes Around
- Satan fucked them all in jail.
- The Death of a Chicken Thief
- Argentine: Thief, Liar, and Illiterate
- White Freedom
- “He Was a Good Boy,” His Mother Said
- Ten Cops Beat Him to Death
- Light a Joint Before He Dies
- Rape offenders in Argentina cry like bitches in prison
- You’ll Be the Whore of the Cell Block
- They Only Rob Working People
- Vengeance Is a Form of Justice
“I Confess That I Have Killed 2” was published on November 1st, 2024 under the Vibras Publishing label and is available in multiple formats to suit every reader’s preference — including E-book, audiobook, and a 312-page paperback edition; The novel has transcended borders, with translations into 25 languages, reflecting its global reach and allowing an international audience to experience this journey through psychological terror, all born from the pen of the talented author Marcos Orowitz.