KILLJOY

Copyright Notice: Killjoy is the first story in the book Once (Eleven), which was honored with 5th Place in New Media Art at the Florence Biennale 2023.

All stories, paintings, and creative content in Once (Eleven) are protected by copyright.
© Andrei Bonilla, 2023. All rights reserved.

Thank you Rebe, for all your help giving life to this English version!

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Before the day I woke up turned into a Bengal tiger, my friends used to call me “Killjoy.” I came to be Killjoy due to my inherent ability to kill my own joy—specifically, I used to kill, or more like butcher, every single hobby I embarked upon.

They used to say that I chose my “victims” carefully: I watched them in their surroundings, I found their most prominent patterns, then I established a suffocating and possessive relationship with them. Finally, when I had exhausted everything and there was no way out, I murdered them.

The comparison was a little exaggerated—very characteristic of my friends and their classical dark humor—however, they had a point. I was the typical guy who would plunge headfirst into any hobby that promised to make him happy. I yearned for passion, for something that could turn my life into something magical. I didn’t mind buying the most expensive gear that the hobby required, nor giving it the hours I didn’t have. I published months of spam on my social media. The problem was that when I tried to turn it into a business, it died.

I was like those Olympic mascots that are portrayed playing every single sport: I tried everything for the promise of a magical, abundant life. The big difference was that the mascots never got tired of their endeavors—but I did. I got tired of my constant searches, of the world with its forced positivism, of fake gurus, of pyramid schemes, of influencers, and of the eight, ten, or twelve glasses of water.

My frustration kept me company for a long time. It was like a bad tune that refused to leave my mind. To my surprise, while over some beers on a December afternoon, I realized that my friends were also hearing this bad tune.

“Killjoy, I’m sick of this eternal bitterness! You need a break. Take a vacation, spread your wings, and soar,” said Chuy in his pre-drunken philosophical stage. “But above all, have fun! Don’t make plans, don’t try to be productive. I’ll get you a shot, and you’ll drink to it now!”

Chuy (yes, his name was Jesús), whether sober or drunk, always gave good advice. He was like the older brother of the group. That afternoon, I gave him my word, and we toasted to my upcoming trip.

My oath took me on a two-week adventure through various countries of Southeast Asia. The trip was the breath and magic that I needed—I felt renewed—but my return didn’t go as I expected.

My nephew Mathew picked me up at the airport. I spent that night at his apartment because I wanted to rest before driving back to my place.

The world could have come to an end and I wouldn’t have noticed. For the first time in ages, I had a deep and placid sleep. My eyes opened around 11 a.m., when Mathew came in to wake me up. He looked at me carefully and turned pale before rushing out of the room. When he closed the door behind him, I was able to see—in the mirror attached to the back of the door—that I had become a tiger. I tried standing up on two legs but fell flat on my back.

Even though I was the one lying confused on the floor, I had to comfort Mathew through the door and reassure him I was not going to eat him. I just asked him to please have breakfast with me.

That morning, the smell of coffee and fresh bread straight out of the oven was ten times more tempting than usual.

“So, Uncle, did you take any weird drugs on your trip? Or do you think someone put a spell on you or gave you the evil eye? Did you go to some sacred aboriginal burial ground? Or was it that you wished to become a tiger and your wish came true? You’ve been saying for a while that you want a magical life.”

“Mat, no. Calm down! I didn't do any of that. Pass me the cheese, please. I’ll call Chuy; I'm sure he’ll give me some good advice. And let's not tell anyone else about this.”

That afternoon, I once more contemplated the golden skies of Myanmar. I walked the windy and colorful path of the prayer flags in Nepal. I heard the noise of my windbreaker when walking—the people, their prayers, the solemn bells, and the life of the markets. When I woke up from my long nap, a strong smell of cologne flooded the apartment; Chuy had arrived.

“Killjoy, you’re not chubby-cheeked anymore,” he said in his usual mocking tone. “Look, guys, I have a plan—and I’ve come prepared. The first thing is to get Killjoy out of the building. With all of these annoying and nosy neighbors, we’ll have a huge problem if they see flat-cheeked here. Luckily, you can use my parents’ farm. There’s a big ranch in the middle of the property; nobody is going to bother you, and it’s full of mango trees. Now the most important part: I got the phone number of a shaman who, as they told me, has even cured werewolves. He can help us—but not until two weeks from today. He’s a very busy guy. This is all I can do for you.”

That was the magic of my cologne-stinking friend: saving the day. I thanked him and gave him the gifts I had gotten him from Asia. That night, they wrapped me in blankets, took me to Mathew’s car, and drove me to the farm.

Every morning I woke up on a soft green lawn surrounded by red mangoes, whose fragrance mixed with that of the eucalyptus trees. Mat would come from the ranch with breakfast from the local butcher. In the afternoons, I recounted to the river my worries and dreams, and in turn, it taught me how to flow. Sometimes I ran, sometimes I slept. Sometimes I cried because I missed my family and my friends—but other times, I felt bad for feeling so good. At night, I chased fireflies that I was never able to catch. My nephew used to say it was a beautiful and clumsy display, like seeing a flare chasing a sparkle in the dark.

I stopped chasing dreams and ideals. Instead, I chased my own shadow when it was too sunny, I chased the wind when I wanted to feel my skin tickle, and I chased the sound of the trees to lull myself to sleep. I had everything—without obsessing—and my strength of character grew as never before.

One afternoon, while I was playing happily by the river, I got the feeling that someone was watching me. It was Mathew, Chuy, and the shaman. My heart leaped as I ran toward them.

The shaman knelt before me as a sign of respect, then he caressed my head while praising my sacred elegance. He examined my eyes, stood up, and took out some stones from his bag. With the stones, he made a circle around us and recited a prayer that none of us understood.

Golden lotus flowers fell from the sky. They fell in such silence that not even the river dared to challenge it.

“I have good news and bad news,” said the shaman. “The good news is that nobody cursed Killjoy—on the contrary, this is a blessing. The bad news is that I can’t heal something that is not wrong, and I would never dare mess with a gift from the universe. I am sorry, Killjoy. I know you are yearning to go back to your old self, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“I want to be alone,” I told them.

I cried myself to sleep by the river. When I woke up, I had a shiny bright light on my nose—it was the firefly that I had never been able to catch. And there, in the darkness, it told me:

“If you stop chasing happiness, it will come to you—just as I have done.”

That night I walked back to the ranch on two feet. I was just like before, but I was never the same as before.

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Thanks for reading!

You can find the color paperback book (Spanish only) on Amazon