C breathed deeply, while his feet (one below the other) dangling in the air.
C thought, and ripensva, and thought again. loved someone, perhaps, or hated, more likely. The banality of his person amused the world, clown himself and the world.
The air was warm, dry and comfortable. A slight feeling of well being through it, and extracted from the carrier a black Bic pen, smiling.
- As if it was your neck. - Whispered, breaking it.
could not suppress a grin joint pain and contempt, hatred and suffering.
He waited too long.
takes another Bic, looks at her.
- You are me, you will not die, not hours .- said with the tone of voice that people outside his world used with affection.
picked up a needle, stolen from one of the syringes with which his mother is forced to inject insulin every day; p made of scotch. The tape, not the liquor. rested the needle blunt end of the Bic whole, holding it with two fingers and stared at him well with the adhesive.
laughed Meanwhile, C, as if to mock the world, as if the whole world would laugh, then, that his joke. Once understood, of course.
took a lighter and burned all the needle. -
freed from all evil, needle .- whispered, eating the last letter, then dipped it in the ink of the Bic route before, so it is loaded with ink. The smile ran away again, this time more pronounced.
He pulled up his left sleeve, they disinfect the skin with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide and immersed in a case in point, the needle dripping ink blue.
She felt little pain, he smiled and pulled out the needle, I just dived to one side, then pulled out, it dipped again in liquid Bic, then again in the arm.
So many times, including redness, blood, and yes - after a while - pain.
the evening was coming, and C through the tears continued his work.
- It's my skin, non potranno ignorare ancora. -
Finì, si disinfettò e attese che il rossore passasse, almeno un poco.
Pensò che i suoi genitori la stessero cercando, ma lei aveva gettato il telefonino nel fiume che scorreva a circa venti metri da lei. Ne sentiva la voce, del fiume.
Aprì gli occhi stordita, quasi incosciente: si era appisolata lì, ed aveva sfasato tutti i tempi.
Si alzò di scatto, e corse via lasciando tutto sul prato: la borsa, le Bic, l'ago, una maglietta.
Corse via, e stava piangendo. Piangeva di una felicità nuova, e tutt'altro che effimera. Piangeva ridendo, come fanno i pazzi e gli innamorati.
Scavalcò la balaustra del ponte e ci si sedette sopra, knew what he was doing. To the world, his face made her laugh, the way she walked, the way she move her hair, as he blew his nose, the shoes he wore, his distorted handwriting: everything about her laugh. And she laughed, C, laughing loudly.
raised his left arm in the air and then lower it and watch it, amazed at how he had managed well so far his plan.
"your death, vita mea"
his own handwriting was distorted, was able to reproduce it as such even on his body.
- Dear world, you laugh at me today. The fact is that you're always wrong, I'm not like you see me, and I have to kill the reality that you can give me. I have to live peacefully with the reality that is mine, and that should be everyone. I died the first day of life, when the nurse, looking at my gambina shorter than the other, could not restrain that wicked little smile. I died that day, and you - worldwide - have boasted to impose your reality on me that I was dead. Today I win. Today I'll show I'm not like you saw me, although that will remain in your memory. But the past is the past for the future and I have nothing to lose. "
It dropped slightly in the deep of the night, down from the bridge. Down in the lives of all people who laughed at her, down from the train life: fallen, to an intermediate station.
The air was warm, dry and comfortable. A slight feeling of well being through it, and extracted from the carrier a black Bic pen, smiling.
- As if it was your neck. - Whispered, breaking it.
could not suppress a grin joint pain and contempt, hatred and suffering.
He waited too long.
takes another Bic, looks at her.
- You are me, you will not die, not hours .- said with the tone of voice that people outside his world used with affection.
picked up a needle, stolen from one of the syringes with which his mother is forced to inject insulin every day; p made of scotch. The tape, not the liquor. rested the needle blunt end of the Bic whole, holding it with two fingers and stared at him well with the adhesive.
laughed Meanwhile, C, as if to mock the world, as if the whole world would laugh, then, that his joke. Once understood, of course.
took a lighter and burned all the needle. -
freed from all evil, needle .- whispered, eating the last letter, then dipped it in the ink of the Bic route before, so it is loaded with ink. The smile ran away again, this time more pronounced.
He pulled up his left sleeve, they disinfect the skin with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide and immersed in a case in point, the needle dripping ink blue.
She felt little pain, he smiled and pulled out the needle, I just dived to one side, then pulled out, it dipped again in liquid Bic, then again in the arm.
So many times, including redness, blood, and yes - after a while - pain.
the evening was coming, and C through the tears continued his work.
- It's my skin, non potranno ignorare ancora. -
Finì, si disinfettò e attese che il rossore passasse, almeno un poco.
Pensò che i suoi genitori la stessero cercando, ma lei aveva gettato il telefonino nel fiume che scorreva a circa venti metri da lei. Ne sentiva la voce, del fiume.
Aprì gli occhi stordita, quasi incosciente: si era appisolata lì, ed aveva sfasato tutti i tempi.
Si alzò di scatto, e corse via lasciando tutto sul prato: la borsa, le Bic, l'ago, una maglietta.
Corse via, e stava piangendo. Piangeva di una felicità nuova, e tutt'altro che effimera. Piangeva ridendo, come fanno i pazzi e gli innamorati.
Scavalcò la balaustra del ponte e ci si sedette sopra, knew what he was doing. To the world, his face made her laugh, the way she walked, the way she move her hair, as he blew his nose, the shoes he wore, his distorted handwriting: everything about her laugh. And she laughed, C, laughing loudly.
raised his left arm in the air and then lower it and watch it, amazed at how he had managed well so far his plan.
"your death, vita mea"
his own handwriting was distorted, was able to reproduce it as such even on his body.
- Dear world, you laugh at me today. The fact is that you're always wrong, I'm not like you see me, and I have to kill the reality that you can give me. I have to live peacefully with the reality that is mine, and that should be everyone. I died the first day of life, when the nurse, looking at my gambina shorter than the other, could not restrain that wicked little smile. I died that day, and you - worldwide - have boasted to impose your reality on me that I was dead. Today I win. Today I'll show I'm not like you saw me, although that will remain in your memory. But the past is the past for the future and I have nothing to lose. "
It dropped slightly in the deep of the night, down from the bridge. Down in the lives of all people who laughed at her, down from the train life: fallen, to an intermediate station.
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