THE PIG

The days and the weeks passed. A veil seemed to have dropped over everything I had lived through with Gatsby. Life was being gentle to me, a necessary balance for all the intensity.

That day I got up with a strange sensation. It was the second day I had woken up like that. I normally wake up with a lot of energy. I always felt that I was blessed in some way, but this time I was noticing something dark approaching my soul.

I was very aware of myself and I decided to keep it that way for the next few days. The next day I again got up with a disagreeable and infinitely subtle sensation. I had the impression that someone of very refined intelligence was getting close to me. I would describe it as a sticky emotional sensation, and at the same time as something twisted, hidden. I think it was Saturday.

I went out to the street, determined to hide myself behind an apparent unawareness. I let images and thoughts surround me with no apparent control. It was a trap because I needed that sensation to appear to me in a more apparent way so as to learn more about it.

Just at the moment when my thoughts imparted to my soul a certain feeling of sensuality, just like a spider who feels the vibration of the fine thread of its web, a mouthful of fetid air overwhelmed me emotionally. I have never felt anything like that again. In an instant, it had tried to mix its thoughts and feelings with mine and the former were immensely vile and degenerate.

"I caught you, you bastard!", were my words, full of rage.

It only lasted a second, enough to know him. I put a face to him, that of a pig. A rank, some type of priest, an initiate. And a biography. From his virulence he had been the instigator of extreme vileness in the history of men.

This image filled me with enormous rage. I quickly went to a church. I entered the side chapel. There, before a full-sized image of Christ, I asked him to help me get rid of that pig from my soul. I was enormously indignant, and not just for myself. I thought of all humanity exposed to beings of a blackness without limits, hidden and seasoned enemies of human beings. After a while I stopped having that sticky sensation that was completely flooding me and I left, determined to help my friend Gatsby with renewed determination.

I can't be sure that Demian was behind everything that happened because, other than my senses, I did not have an mind to confirm it, though everything seemed to point to it being him. I then saw Demian as a complete idiot and his frenetic activity as a weakness. He was going to be the instigator who would encourage me to help Gatsby with the strength that I did not have before. I realized that Demian would be lost if man succeeds in unmasking him behind the events under which, without a doubt, he hides.