Durkheim knew

He had been sent to the Hell on Earth, but he didn't know how exactly he had been there. Everything was wrong, everything used to go wrong. His job was awful and even if he was very talented and creative, he used to be always seen as lazy and opportunist. He felt he hadn't friends because no one showed some sympathy for him. They were all self-seeking that always used to remember him in moments of extreme sadness and, after when they were feeling better, they ran from him as the Devil runs from the cross.

It was like if he had been excluded of the whole process. He swallowed too many things, tried to abstract the grieves, but the polite silence just corroded him, the hate corroded him. He cried of angry. He used to feel too many repressed hate. Why the hell he used to imprison himself in a life that was not his? Why did he receive indifference when he gave love? Why did he see everybody loving to live in that mask ball, in that theater piece of a foreseeable script? He couldn't fool himself. He was out and this isolation was killing him each day, each hour, each second.

Then he decided to accept the lugubrious world where he lived, even he desperately wanted to leave from. He just wanted to be one more, he wanted to be one more alienated, whatever, he just wanted not to feel rejected as he always was. But he discovered he couldn't find fullness even throwing himself spontaneously in the fire of the hell. Damn it! It was like the shitness of his life was a kind of black humor reality show, where he was reason of the laugh of normal and happy people.

He thought it was time to say enough. That he was been extremely altruistic in following the ruined values of justice from a society that avoided him. Why to be good with those that only slight him? Why to smile to those that showed him their middle finger? Why to count till ten when he was cursed in his job by his boss that studied only until the 4th grade? Why to be so nice and correct? Why didn't he fight back?

Then he blew up. He decided to destroy his life at all, doing to deserve all that repulsion he always felt. We would channelize his hate, we would be finally him, would be that mad and dangerous person he was labeled by never spoken words. He would go to the hell, but he wouldn't there by himself.

He robbed a machine-gun from a 14-year-aged trouble kid that was previously stabbed. We went in the fancier mall of the city wearing his best clothes. He bought a ticket to watch a remake of a Disney's fairytale. He entered into the crowded movies room and the machine-gun started to work. Brains flew everywhere and his eyes were shining for the first time in his life. We was born to kill. He felt pleasure in doing that. Everyone would pay with their lives for the sorrow he felt during all those years. The room became a swimming pool of blood and when he prince was about to kiss the Sleeping Beauty, he took off his own life with a shot in his mouth.

A note was found inside his pocket hours later and revealed to the necromaniac media. He had for forgiveness to the victims families, but he had received a divine mission. Necromaniacs demanded the death penalty in Brazil, even the murder had committed suicide. An office was prayed for him. His co-workers were shocked with such a behavior: “he was a very calm person”, they said. But the rotten society was unable to analyze what happened. It was the same society that used to disguise grief and horror by the massacre, but searched on the internet for pictures with their bodies all teared in pieces because it gives them sadistic pleasure. They hadn't notice they were all homicides. They didn't know it because they didn't know who had been Durkheim.