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Death

Racconti brevi - Short stories

Death.


I met death sitting on a chair in my kitchen. The face is pale and thin, had something terrifying, like a forest where every night is a natural movement strange noise. His eyes, perfectly positioned in the middle of the eye sockets sunken and dark, looked like wisps that spring out of nowhere and back to zero after having burnt the last energy of earthly life that imprisons the soul.
Unlike how I imagined, or at least, as I had been taught to see her, death was by no means typical aspect of a skull, but instead, strangely sweet, almost guilty.
It looked like the face of a child caught in the act.
When I saw her, I was afraid it would come to me, but his glance was enough to make me understand that he was there by chance. I must have died frozen by fear, and instead I felt invaded by an unknown heat and she, in turn, did nothing to intimidate, and after looking at me for reassurance, you put in the same location where I had found on entering the kitchen ; with the haggard and sad.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, I approached the kitchen and lit a fire under a pot containing water for tea.
All the while the infusion of boiling and I was moving slowly, trying to observe it better and she did nothing to stop me.
It would have been enough to transform me into a single stone in place, and nothing but. He let me observe, like an animal now resigned to the bars that separate it from reality.
I put out of the cup with the tea. That was the first time that his eyes stood for a long time on my eyes, staring in a decisive manner that only death or great businessmen, they do. He raised his right hand and invited me to sit beside her. It was an unusually strong hand by bold lines.
We sipped tea in a slow as only time can do that seems never to pass, and in those moments he heard the desperation of one who knows he is forced to do things, why it should be and nothing and nobody can avoid it.
Through the silence of terror, but did not love, I know the tears and suffering, who reaps grass sometimes fresh, sometimes dry.
Love, hate, passion, loneliness, multiple sensations gripped my heart, squeezing it to the point of reducing it to an insignificant grain of sand lost in the middle of a desert. I met the most absolute despair of a child recently orphaned and love over time lovers, shot down like trees.
There remained the last sip of tea, but death did not drink. He slowly stood up, holding out his hand.
I held her, thinking to find her cold as ice, but it was hot as the warmth of a fireplace.
He left, as it had arrived, leaving me in remembrance emotions never felt before, and at that moment she felt a great pain in my heart.
Its great to travel from one end of the world, had not yielded a single friend and anyone who tried to approach to have some understanding, warmth, or maybe a cup of tea, had fled, after going to tell, as had managed to escape death.
her only great traveler alone, more alone than ever, with hearts filled with sadness and regret.
I had a great joy at the thought that for once, I had helped the woman who inspires fear, but fear does not put me.



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