A bunch of appearances
Sunday … A day that marks the end of a tumultuous week, in which the weather did nothing but make fun of nature and, implicitly,…
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Sunday … A day that marks the end of a tumultuous week, in which the weather did nothing but make fun of nature and, implicitly,…
Sunday ... A day that marks the end of a tumultuous week, in which the weather did nothing but make fun of nature and, implicitly, of us. A Sunday that I want to put on the calendar as the day, I started something new for diversity. Thus, I put away any commotion, any desire inclined towards poetry, deciding to create a ... short story. Finally, I hesitate to catalog it, as it results from a constructive impulse. The so-called short story will be called "Bunch of Appearances," which is the only factual information I can provide at the moment. I don't have anything well-defined in mind, and I prefer to be carried away by the "inspiration of the moment" ... I hope you like it ...
Chapter I
The dust rose nervously through the cold particles of air, disturbed by her footsteps, getting tighter and tighter as she became more agitated, more careless on the road.
Nature, stripped of any trace of compassion, also tried to prevent her from continuing her flight, to save her angelic face, frightened by the darkness of that autumn sunset, painted in shades of sad colors, from possible mistreatment.
A bit further back, on the same steep mountain road, a bloody old cripple dragged his ancient body in pursuit of her, seeming to want, at all costs, to grab her and stick his dirty hands in her hair. Black, smelling of dry autumn petals, bathed in the acid rays of a powerless sun.
It was getting harder and harder for her to breathe, her eyelids getting heavier with every second that flowed out of the hourglass of temporality so that after only half a minute, a thick fog began to take over ...
She continued to he fled until he awoke in a clearing, the peace of which compelled everyone to stop.
He could no longer see the older man. Maybe he was gone. Or maybe not.
Despite her lack of certainty, she felt safe.
Silence had set in, a grave silence, but this did not seem to bother her too much. He listened to the absolute silence that struck every leaf, every tree, or every flower, making them tremble.
Suddenly, she feels trapped in skeletal arms, which, as she suspected, were the arms of the strange old man. Contrary to popular belief, those arms were incredibly strong and caused a sharp pain to build up in his heart.
He knew he had no intention of releasing her, intending to end her life.
He had three regrets.
First, once dead, it will be as if it never existed. The only one who would have remembered her fell to her death as the petals of the roses fall in the fall, just a month ago. But the memory of the funeral procession was his freshest and most potent memory.
The second regret: she had not been able to live her life, and, on her first trip of more than three days, on the Abruzzi mountains, where she was now, she woke up with a psychopath following in her footsteps. He had spent two and a half decades of his monotonous existence studying hard but not knowing what he really wanted. He initially wanted to become an archaeologist, abandoning this dream at an unknown airport and clinging to another unachievable, intangible one.
Half a year ago, she had witnessed the exorcism of a 10-year-old girl, remaining deeply marked by the sequence of events, the ritual itself, but especially the finality, an unbelievable tragedy. In Italy, however, to become an exorcist, one had to meet an essential condition, namely, to be a man.
The third regret was the greatest and most painful: he had never loved anyone. He had not allowed his heart to generate the feelings he admired so much when he looked at his parents, now in the throes of death.
He had taken his heart in his teeth and tried to open his eyes to look at the sunset for the last time, but his body did not seem to listen to her.
- Do not move!
Said the old man, whose voice did not seem human at all but rather satanic.
- Let me go! What do you want from me?
- Shut up, I said!
The old man continued, this time adopting a warm voice, which Tamara had recognized immediately. It was the voice of her mother, Camelia, the voice that made her let her weak body slip into his arms.
They advanced a few meters, after which he released her. He could no longer feel the ground beneath his feet. Death had suddenly become a certainty, and her only thought got directed at the one who had caused it. She opened her eyes with strange ease and stared at his icy blue eyes. He didn't blink. He had no regrets in his eyes.
He should have screamed, but he was silent. It continued to fall until a powerful blow disturbed the heavenly peace ...
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