I know that when dawn breaks I will be devoured by the red scorpion I tattooed on my chest.
I remember the moment, the euphoria of that Friday when I decided to get it tattooed. I dreamed of having it on my skin, I chose it with the care with which one chooses the love of one's life. Its shapes, its figures, its imposingness. I had woken up on my eighteenth birthday. My mother had lost her authority to command. As soon as it was daylight, I ran excitedly to the Moroccan's shop, on the outskirts of the city. I arrived at his business after lunch. The Moroccan, with a reputation for making pacts with the devil, greeted me with a smile. I stripped before him from the waist up and gave myself to his ways. The process took seven hours. I wanted it to be impeccable, shining on my chest.
The first few days, the ones I was careful with, I wasn't even at my mother's house so that she wouldn't disturb me with her complaints. I healed in the apartment of my best friend's parents who were vacationing in Cartagena. On the third day, the problems began. The scorpion had doubled in size and now it didn't just occupy my chest, but part of my abdomen. Its tail spilled over my neck.
At the disco, the first night I went out to show it off in a sleeveless shirt, the girls went crazy. I ended up in the bathroom stall having sex with a fat woman who, at the moment of climax, turned purple and fainted in my arms. The sting of the stinger and a red circle on her skin, the product of my animal's venom, remained marked on her back. I ran to the mirror, thinking it was a matter of the acid I had ingested, but no. I saw the animal's tail moving around my arm.
From then on, the scorpion became shameless and began to make me feel hungry to kill, imposing its nature. I began to go out without a shirt, to the beach, enduring the forty degrees of summer to wait for the girls and boys who were dazzled by such majesty to fall like flies. And so it went on for weeks.
I saw the news that a plague of scorpions was ravaging the city and killing young boys. I was afraid. And I rebelled against it. I swore to it that I would never go out again and I was locked up without food, causing it to die.
But it was no use. For a week now it has grown on my body, to such an extent that I no longer know if I am the one who has become its tattoo.
Twenty minutes ago I felt the sting in my back. It seems unbelievable to me that the bug has paid me this way. The Moroccan does not stop calling me on the phone. But now only the poison that runs through my body and takes me far away from here matters.
Now I realize how beautiful the first rays of dawn are.
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