I’m a humble wristwatch
Time is just a matter of rhythm. The bigger is the space, the easier is to see that movement stretch until it dissolves completely. Here, then, in this small controlled space, time seems to be small, tiny. A midget of time, in the big circus of lights and planets. And yet, you cannot open a door that a second seems to fly away, together with some whitish yellowish body.
This woman walks fast in the corridor, straight in her body and in her way. Her way doesn’t have any turn, she has just to walk straight, with her hands stiff, the arms slightly swinging as they were long pendulums. A glimpse to the watch face reflects the image of time. And impatience. Yes, it’s now the time to send all the relatives away and check again this human bag is completely emptied of soul.
Is there anyone?
The hand press gently on the handle, but inside there’s no one to disturb. The relatives are just a vague recollection, passed to check as they were clocking in. They said goodbye to the soul, now they want it just eradicated from this body, planted preferably far away from this town out of the way.
The thingy hand- shaped
So here we are with a mask, two thongs, and a strange thingy hand- shaped. The silence in the room is almost complete. Only my gear walks with his sound on the walls, hiding for a millisecond in the angles. This sound is able to scare the spiders and give a rhythm to the small ants that somewhere are trying to survive. Then here we are, she’s putting the glove on, because if there’s any soul it’s hiding in the fingers. Well, it would be difficult to find any soul in there, being checked before by two dealers. The body is there, flabby and silent, ready to be ditched with all the other corpses. It was exactly the same when the first dealer came in.
The two dealers
The first dealer remained inside for a while, maybe a minute. He went out only when the second arrived. No, more seconds passed, it’s not about time, it was a second dealer. A more sophisticated one. Oh how easy is to understand the human hierarchies! The first one was a sort of subordinate and he didn’t have to count ten before he remembered his place in the world and leave. Finally, the sophisticated dealer came in and my thin wrist seemed to recognise his, given the cold handshake and the
whispered quietly by those lips with pointy moustaches. Then he asked
I’m sorry, did you find any clues on why it happens on his body?
As we were in one of those crime novels in which you’re going to find who’s guilty. Here is quite easier than that, death is the only guilty one, culpable of have chosen the wrong moment for this soul dealer, apparently. I say that because then
Yes, we have actually a big clue
Said the doctor in a second and few milliseconds
answered the dealer in less than a second
His carotid was cut, sliced by a razor. The same razor the barber was using to shave for the last 40 years at least
Do you mind if I check the patient one more time?
Oh, finally a doctor called patient. He has to wait to be dead and in a morgue to be called like that. Well anyways it wasn’t anything inside. The patient has a lot of number attached to his big toe, others identify him in the registers, but the former Doctor B. is nothing more. Yes, Doctor and not doctor, he was an important one so you must use the capital letter.
So, here we are, again
The dealer realised after a while that nothing but a corpse was in that room. A glimpse to the body, a contempt expression bracketed by his pointed moustaches and left silently the morgue. But here we are, in the present time. That thingy hand shaped is checking one more time. Every time the doctor wears this glove, I lose a
The first attempt is perfect. If no light is going to switch on, it means nothing is wrong. But probably I’m mistaken, maybe something has to switch on anyways. A trace of non- life has to be traced by the glove.
Apparently there’s a tiny little particle of life still inside the body. Now, the light brown leather strap touches the patient’s lips and I feel something. Something. It’s not a normal soul, I know normal souls. It’s something else. My hands skip an hour, as they were laughing. What is that?
Do you believe in reincarnation?
— Read how a corpse can speak in the next part! —
This story will be published once per week only, with all rights reserved for the story and its translations by Flyingstories.org 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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