That boy

— Read in Italian–

— Read the previous paragraph —

A sunny day

As absurd it would sound, sometimes we refer to a day as a “Sunny day”. As if in all the other cases the sun wasn’t there to show that the Earth isn’t hidden alone in the darkness of the universe. Even in the places in which seals and polar bears still survive, the sun is still there. Maybe you cannot see it for sometimes, but it’s still there, as an adult hiding from a child to win a laugh.

One step at the time

In one of those so-called sunny day, there’s no blanket hiding the sun, so this sturdy squared- smile guy can even walk without a jacket. I know all this for the reason that the same guy is wearing the wrong shoes, the same one which are telling you about this solitary walking. Anyways, let’s go one step at the time.

An exchange of shoes

At a first sight, even a rapid glimpse, I’m sure you’d realise these feet are deforming me for almost one week. Watch carefully, look hard, get the colours splash all together, rotate them behind your eyes, add some light with your pupils and then you’ll probably notice a small detail.  An S. seems carved in a nice calligraphy in the left shoe, right under the heel. Sure, for you it came easier, having a good sight and all, but it something the temporary owner of these shoes is missing. No, we cannot define him as a slow guy, but there’s a- something missing that let me judge his soul as a bit sleepy one. He’s walking fast in the streets, with a suffering grim in his face, and even though he cannot suspect even for a second that the problem comes from his own shoes. Maybe is the street, the clammy feet, the sweat, who knows? That he keeps telling to himslef.

Souls are not all the same

Somewhere, I’m sure, S. noticed the exchange. S. is clever as you, with an enviable eye for details and a sixth sense is telling him for sure that the S. is missing in his left shoe. His soul is just different, is an industrious salesman soul. Now the steps suddenly stop in front of a pub, ready to clean up the dust of the world and enter. Leaving outside the sunny day and the sun itself.

Lives are not al the same

With a glance you can picture which place is this, with not so many people sit at the tables, some on the stools. Everyone dressed in a sloppy style, some Lazarus rapt by money- grubbing slot machines giving them pictures of fruits and animals in exchange. No, we’re not in the fancy bakery close to the main market. There there’s always someone opening up the door for us, and even someone eager to shine me for two coins, till I feel I’m a young pair of shoes again. Instead of greeting us, in this machine- world, people speak in a monosyllabic- grumpy way.

Deaths are not all the same

That boy_ the hand of the grandma
That boy_ the hand of the grandma

Finally the guy seats, said something in the usual monosyllabic way, receive a similar small talk answer and leaves leaving a coin on the counter. Back in the street, then in a line somewhere with a ticket in the hand and finally the one that seems the final destination for this sunny morning. In a house, inside a room, at the feet of a bed in which a tired body of an old woman smells like dust. The eyes slowly rise and

My little snail, I’m leaving you

The little-snail-boy decide anyways he didn’t come to let himself down by that dust- woman, so he tries something to change the topic. For all I know, from all the possible way to change the subject, the best one consist of pressing the lips on the forehead of the other speaker. It comes without saying, you must have some sort of relationship with the other person, or the topic will change dramatically.

Reality is stronger than a kiss

It is the case, so the subject changed and with it the face- expression of the dust- woman. Then, that witch called reality comes back and jump on the eyes of the poor old lady laying on the bed. That witch is called loneliness, and dissipates only with the visits of the snail- guy or the meatballs and tomato sauce on Fridays. So the reality drop from the eyes to the lips and whispers

My small snail, I’m gonna die. I discovered that my souls still worth something, till I’m alive. Not enough to repay the rent for the next month, but enough to leave this bed without any debts. Before I’ll leave, though, I need to tell you something important

Grandma, you don’t need to…

Listen to me, small-snail. My soul is dirtier than you think

What could you possibly have done, grandma?

It’s not about what I did, it’s about what I didn’t and I would have done. Something as not keeping a promise I made to your mom long ago

The baby silence grow up, then becomes to walk around the room. It’s not a silence- toddler anymore, it’s heavy and you can feel it. Then, suddenly, it dies. The silence, obviously. The snail guy has something to say, or better to whisper, and he needs her ears for that to have any sense

Grandma, I think you just need to rest a bit. You don’t have to leave me today, I can still help you

Yes, you’re right, I need to rest. I need to rest for ever. Now, don’t waste time and take the envelope inside the second drawer before they will come and take everything. There you will find my confession, it will probably give some peace to this tired soul if you promise me to read it this very day. Do you promise me that?

Sure, grandma, but…

I don’t ask you to forgive me, nor to understand me. I just need you to realise who you really are. Now, call the salesman, I’m ready to go

The salesman enters, with his assistant. His sweaty hands crossed in front of him, a bit shaky, get steady when start preparing the poison

This old people, I like them only when they’re cold

He’s thinking while he get the shot, relieving this body devastated by time and memory

Read the first chapter!

— Read the next one, Vendetta! —

This story will be published once per week only, with all rights reserved for the story and its translations by and in the person of Daniele Frau.

All the graphics are handmade and designed with different techniques by Gabriele Manca, DMQ productions, who reserves all rights. 

All English articles published in Souls (alive) proofread by Elisabeth Corcoran


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