What’s life? Is it a pastime? Is it something we can decide whether to live it or not? Or is it just the product of a genetic mix and we’re condemned to live through it?
Right now, as I’m pressing the tip of my fingers against the keys of the computer, a tear drop’s falling from the corner of my left eye and as it slides through the cheek and meets the jaw line at the end of the face, finally does an Olympic-jump into the swimming-pool that’s been made with my tears over my homework underneath. I’m not going to bother to move them; why should I? In the end, they’re just some papers which teachers use in order to have an excuse to fail you.
I can hear some steps downstairs… I can still hear her shouting and closing doors after her as she crosses the flat. I can still hear the rumors of the neighbors of next door whispering softly and asking one another quietly what was going on next door.
Everything is quiet now. I press my ear against the door and ask myself if it would be safe now to go to the floor below and open the entrance door and get to the elevator without having to see her, without feeling her whole hand against my cheek again.
I listen carefully and I open the door of my room as I make my way to the stairs, when I glimpse a flash of light and I feel a huge stick hitting my head as I trip and fall down the first four steps. I feel an enormous weight over my ribs making them crash against my lungs, I can hardly breath and I try to get up and run.
This feeling, her hands strangling my throat, my half-opened mouth, my eyes closed so as to avoid the light that was making my eyes cry.
I try not to shout but the feelings inside me are the worst and the darkest I had ever had.
I don’t think that anything is gonna be ever the same. I am not looking her into the eye again. I don’t think I’ll be able to talk to her. I think I’m going upstairs to pick up my things and I’m leaving home…
Definitely, I am.
Definitely, I am.
