I have to end with such

Until a few weeks ago I was a happy person. I had not realized it, probably because nothing threatens the peaceful happiness. But it was. Would still be, if not for the series of terrible events that began to happen that day. Probably does not take much to enjoy happiness: having a good salary in the marketing department of a multinational, a downtown apartment with a housekeeper who comes to fix it every day and no emotional commitment that lasts more than a night or two at most. I know that even envy me at the office. "Anselm, they say, that really knows how to live: single, with a sports car and all the women you want at your disposal?. Rumors, some exaggerated, as I bind to Vicky, the principal's secretary general. Well, ours was not exactly a sentimental story, but I left it because I follow the sound makes new conquests. The first sign that something was wrong was when I discovered that I followed. Well, not exactly a breakthrough, but a perception. I sensed that someone was watching me, to be exact. The first thing I thought was a jealous husband.

I had just had a casual encounter with a married woman I met at a department store. People do not know the relations that arise shopping. If men they knew, would haunt most stores, rather than leaving that task to the women. So then what happens happens. I had believed, therefore, to be the husband of Clara. Or someone who would be hired to watch me. I discovered not one, I say, it was a continuing perception: when parking the car, when I entered the portal from home ... The situation continued the next day, even when I stopped less than an hour at noon for lunch. I was not afraid, if you want to know. Only apprehension. With thirty years and a lifetime of playing sports, you are not afraid. At least, physical fear. I knew that it was the husband of Clara as the chase continued over the course of two very brief relationship I had with individual women in the days following. Even once I noticed the bodily presence of the pursuer, looking at the window of a store. I turned and saw only the back of someone who quickly disappeared around the corner of the street.

The matter was over. I noticed in my own home that unique personal items were moved. Changes were subtle, if you will, but changes to the end of the day. Even my wet toothbrush appeared one night, arriving at my apartment, as if someone had finished using it. On the street, harassment became even more apparent. The intruder did not attempt to avoid the noise of their steps. Sometimes perceived his shadow over me. The worst was when I began to see it physically. The first time was his back. Just turn around to notice that I quickly turned on myself. I shouted: - Hey, you! What do you mean? There were many people among us, yet I could briefly see his face when his face half turned while marching in the opposite direction. The impact felt cut short the career that had begun for him. Never had so impressed me nothing. I was stunned. As I looked foreshortened, attempting to flee from me, drew a grin on his face. It turned out that his face was like mine. At least I thought so then.

As if we were Siamese. Print, I was stuck where I was. The other disappeared. It may seem incredible, even, that is the subject of my imagination, an obsession he had with the persecution to which it was subjected. But no: he had seen very clearly. This event took a toll on my work: I started having forgetfulness, to suffer from lack of concentration. Especially when I saw him in front, leaving the office. I was across the street and not hidden. Nervous, I went to have a drink in a bar and soon my pursuer occupied the opposite end of the bar. I could watch him more closely. It was like me: age, height, complexion, dress ... I noticed even that made gestures and body movements were eerily familiar to me. Before I could approach him - I had dared to do it? - The kind that paid their consumption and left. I did not know whether to follow or not, so I was paralyzed, hesitating. The next day I saw him, was in a car next to me at a stoplight. Starts fast, with a sprint of his BMW, laughing. I did not know what bothered me more, if the prosecution itself, if that individual wanted to know what or who was always making fun of me.

I even cross paths with him in the lobby of the building where my office. The good news is that I seemed to be the only one to have noticed this persecution, that coincidence or what. Susan asked the receptionist: - Have you not seen here lately clavadito a cousin of mine to me? Cousin-It never occurred to me to not have to give more explanations, perhaps, would not have seemed convincing. 'Actually no. Do you have a cousin who resembles you?: It must be a cute man, give him my phone number.

Nor had better luck with other coworkers, or in the gym or with my neighbors house that had more confidence. Nobody seemed to have seen. Instead, I did nothing but cross paths with him. Unable to approach him, without getting to talk. The man was elusive. Almost evanescent. A new concern began to occupy the site until then filled the senselessness of suffering persecution. What if it was not just a figment of my imagination? What if I was going pudding head? No. Impossible. I am a balanced individual, sane, healthy, with no overhead. Still, who knows? One day could be the first to start with unusual symptoms, such as these. I went to a psychiatrist. I looked in the phone book. I chose that occupied more characters in the guide is the best, I said, I lose nothing by trying. 'So, who has never spoken to him ... 'Said the doctor, after hearing my story. -Indeed. And says he is laughing at you ... -So it seems, I said, noncommittally. -It may not be more than just a coincidence, 'said the psychiatrist, as if to play down the issue. What do you think? -It is no coincidence.

The type that is causing me. - Why have you come to me and not the police? I was silent. Confused. Was not sure really why he was there or what my particular feelings toward the intruder who had broken into my life. -I could not tell the police what she managed to answer, finally. 'Tell me the same thing. Assurance that odious doctor. Its linear response. Their lack of imagination, warmth or threw whatnot missing. After a dull session in which I did nothing but repeat my story several times, I was in to see him again after one week, but was not sure he wanted to. Upon leaving, I went to my appointment with Monica, manicure gym that was frequently and which had had a particularly gratifying dalliances. That night I was awkward making love, but Monica made no reproach. Soon gave up his apartment and lay down on my not wanting to enter a dream world threatening and ungrateful, turning in bed and waking up drenched in sweat. Late in the morning, I called the office a fellow gym: - Do not you know the news?

I guess not, because otherwise you would not call myself 'I replied, tasteless, with the bad taste of the night still in my mouth. -This is Monica, the girl manicure, which has a beautiful ass, you know ... I put on alert. What happened to Monica? -The found dead in her home, her throat cut. I just told him Antonio, the journalist. I hung up on phone, unable to speak. Dead? ¿Monica? Why? A cold sweat began touring the backbone, to dampen the tailbone. When was that? And above all, who would do such a thing? I went home. I bought a newspaper kiosk in the corner but still did not come anything about the incident. The newsagent, a hearty with sometimes exchanged jokes, I had watched with concern: - Is there something wrong? I do not see a happy face. I looked at my face in a window and saw my face next contorted. The worst thing was not that. The worst was watching over my shoulder the face of my clone, smiling cynically. I turned around, with less energy than usual, but I could not face me with that guy because he immediately dropped something on the floor and walked away from there.

Instinctively I looked toward the sidewalk and saw a knife in it. Bloody. It was absurd. It was absurd. Is not it true, Fermin?, I wanted to ask the seller of the press. I could not do it lay folded on the newsstand, composing a grotesque figure of the blood dripping profusely. Heaven! He was dead! Completely dead! I went into a total panic, not without taking up no room left in my body. I knew I was running because after a few minutes I stood panting, exhausted. I had urinated on. I think I've said that I am a guy who does not allow easily deterred. Even, I think physically able to face anyone. Or almost anyone. But at that moment I felt like a rag doll, inarticulate, without any energy. I locked myself at home. Terrified. I tried to recap the events that was distant, like a movie that was led by another. Remembered that in my mad rush I met several bystanders. He watched their faces still full of wonder. There were screams. Behind me. Someone was shouting for help. Other voices say: - The murderer! The murderer! Escaping! The most horrible of all was that these voices are talking about me.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed and my hands were shaking. By looking at them, I noticed that my right hand stunned had a drop of dried blood. How could manchármela? I tried to remember if he ever touched the body of the newsagent to see what had happened. I did not. Maybe he had picked up the knife, when I saw it on the floor ... The single hypothesis espeluznó me. I, taking the knife ... I, with the knife in my hands ... I, Fermin stabbing ... No, no, no. Someone wanted to drive me crazy, but it was not possible. I had nothing to do with the death of Monica. When I left his house was sleeping peacefully, like last time we made love before. And Fermin ... Fermin ... I was there, talking. I was distracted only a few seconds to look at my face at the window. Then came the other. And Fermin was killed. Well, the other did not appear exactly, but I saw it in the glass of the shop. When I turned around I only had eyes for the poor newsagent, so I did not see anyone else. But who was she kidding? He was alone in the room. Talking to myself. Telling me that I was not a murderer a murderer!

Was he trying to fool myself? Would not mine a brutal paranoia? Would not just going crazy? That's when the doorbell rang. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Now is my turn to continue the story. I knocked on her door. I knew I was going crazy. Perhaps it was too soon to settle this issue, but urged me time. So it was just then rang the bell. At first there was a heavy silence only as foreboding. Soon I heard footsteps muffled by distance, the carpet or the fear that everything could be. I heard his familiar voice, beset by nerves: - Who is it? -You know who I am. And you also know that I have the key to your apartment. Open, therefore, to speak calmly. I heard her rapid breathing, of step. Probably was leaning against the door, bundling forces for daring to cross the entrance. I had to insist, 'Do not try to delay the inevitable. -But who is it? Repeated weakly, with the faint hope that was not what I feared happening.

-I am you. You know. You've seen me. - What do you want? -That we are both finally once. With the unwillingness of a convicted opened the door. Without taking a step either, we look intently. He asked me, as if I had the answer: - Am I crazy? He was not crazy, but terrified, sunken, overwhelmed. If he had kept his usual composure, had maintained the clarity that he had always characterized, have observed that I was not him. Resultábamos even exactly the same. I am a little higher. Less chunky, lack of exercise. He however, has a fledgling crow's feet at the eyes and the slightest twitch in the right corner of the mouth. But recent events had bloated his senses, was surrendered to the inevitable and even death. So I killed him. He had no time to realize. It was a successful stab to the heart. Then came the most difficult of all, adjust the stage, preparing props, staging ultimately his suicide. I stopped the police that afternoon in his office. He had gone to his office, had taken his place, had greeted his teammates and had done their job.

He had so much time spying! He knew by heart as their existence! But the police stopped me, 'We need your help-very politely told me one of the two guys who came that afternoon to clarify the death of two people you know well. I have no problem. But if you do not mind, we may first pass through my house to change clothes because I've stained my shirt ink-and showed it. Not amused, although he agreed with individual snorts. Upon arrival at the apartment were shocked, like boxers notorious wandering around the ring after a direct fit to the jaw. There I was, not I, but who died and with a letter written by his side in his own handwriting, that is mine. He explained that I had always hated me, or him, because he was jealous of my professional success, love, social ... and therefore wanted to take my life, which was his own, killing the people who were with me. But then he realized how horrible it was what he had done, decided to commit suicide, leaving that letter of explanation. The concierge of the building, my secretary, co-workers, a psychiatrist ...

confirmed that long ago that I was worried about feeling watched and persecuted for alleged lookalikes. None had believed until then but, by golly, it was true. All agreed, too, to try to identify the body and the cerulean face unpleasant grin and suddenly supervening premature death, which had not ever seen and that, despite parecérseme enough, none of them had taken the hit if he tried to supplant: - No way! -Vicky adamantly ruled.