The night
The night is made for nightmares
In the night every door makes a different sound if you knock on it. There are different ways of knocking and different doors to knock on. The wood is as important as how impatience is the fist going to knock. Usually the most used way to call for attention in front of a door is to hit it with a flat hand or with a fist. In our case the hand is knocking hard with the fist, but with a certain elegance all the same.
Echoes of attention
The kind of elegance only gloves are able to give to hands. It would be a woman? With all the work to do and the imminent upgrade there are not so many people eager to knock to this reinforced door in metal and wood in a third floor with balcony apartment. The echoes of the knocking, even though are elegant, walk silently expanding then in every room, searching for ears.
Be ready
S., called abruptly from a grey dream, looks outside and sees the city lights scratching with rain drops the dark window. For sure I’m not the most beautiful pair of shoes right now, all full of mud as I am. One positive thing about the mud anyways is that improve my senses. I feel everything around me more fluid, as I was closed inside a car going down in the water. I can feel the rain beating the windows, the feet stretching and stepping outside the bed, getting further, close to the door.
Oh, it’s you
A known face must appear in the spy hole, because then the door suddenly opens. Standing in the living room a woman in blue, with cute wool gloves. It’s about three in the morning, but it seems the woman doesn’t sleep tonight. S. tries to keep himself together, fixing his hairs with his hands and inviting the woman to enter inside. No, she said, another time with pleasure. Now, please
get ready, I have some news for you. I’m waiting for you in the car outside
Right after the stairs we’re outside in the night, with the rain washing up the mud from me. I’m shining again, as I was a brand new pair of shoes, the kind of shoes everyone wants to have under a rainy night. However, no one is willing to notice an humble pair of shoes, in this car right now. The woman dressed in blue moves the hairs from the forehead, showing her eyes. She seems apparently calm, but you can notice she isn’t from the way she torture the poor earring. I hope no soul has been trapped inside, because I know the agony of that endless tickling. Then, as a shot in a church, here come the words that were trapped in mid- air, in the silence
They sent me from the office, ’cause they think I’m the right person for the task. Maybe they know about us, maybe not. I don’t think I’m the right person, but I will try my best
Which task?
I listen the man’s voice asking this question with a mounting anxiety. The woman in blue fixes a point just in front of her, a flashing streetlight. Her hands are getting white for the effort of twisting nervously the wheel. The voice then went out flat, while the eyes watch the rain melting all the colours in the street
The Governor, your father, is dead
Not so far away a thunder beats the ground and its light catch the eyes expression of S. with an incredulous grin. In the exact moment he felt himself arrived, ready for the task, everything seems changing again. He wanted to hug his father, telling him he was ready, his life was finally changed for good. But then this night was meant to happen, evidently. Because that death, now, is destiny changing into scythe. That death was everything which hadn’t have to occur right now.
Rain drops and tears
So I stay here soaking in rain and tears. The lights of a car disappear behind the corner, and a tree decide to cry with the wind. Only a siren shakes the rain and the silence, announcing maybe some other tears mixed to rain, together with a sleepless night.
— And next week… about body and soul! —
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
