The man at the door

WORK IN PROGRESS…

You know, there was a bug in his ear. It was a sentence his wife had spoken a few minutes before. He was on the door. He had his new hat in his hand, his favorite trousers around his loins. He was ready to go outside and spend the night as he liked, but the bug was twisting in his ear.

It was the second time his wife had put a bug in his ear. The first time it happened months ago. She had dared to answer back. He had raised his hand up high to slap her in the face but then she had spoken with odd calm.

“Do it, but then don’t ever fall asleep again.”

He had paused looking her in the eye for a moment, just the time for someone to ring at their front door. He had quickly left the kitchen. When he had come back later that night, the house was dark and silent. In the bedroom, his wife was wrapped in the blankets. He had looked at the back of her head and he had raised his hand again.

“You know the price.”

“You are a fool, woman! How can you think you can beat me?”

“I don’t sleep more than four hours a day. I can do it while you are at work. But you, – she had turned towards him – you sleep soundly until the alarm goes off in the morning. Sometimes you sleep through the alarm ringing right in your ear and I must hake you for good to wake you up.”

“You’ll go to jail.”

“I am a woman. I am in jail already.”

He had distanced himself from their bed.

“But… but in jail, they’ll beat you up all the time!”

In the dark, he had seen his wife shrug her shoulders. That night, he had decided to not sleep and just surveil his wife from the little armchair in the corner. He had resisted some time, but in the morning she had woken him up with a hot cup of coffee and asked him if he wanted to call in sick for that day.

“No, better go. They’ll say I got the hangover.”

“Who cares? You didn’t sleep much last night. You could hurt yourself at the plant.”

He had looked at her through puffy eyelids. Then he had raised his hand asking for help to stand up from the chair and reach the bed, which had freshly changed sheets. He had fallen asleep immediately, too tired to worry. That morning bed linen had smelled soo good he could still remember it there on the door, with his hat in his hands.

“You don’t know what I do when you leave.”

He shrugged, put his hat on and left. But on his way to the the door and walked towards the living room. His wife had put some kind of oil in her long, curly hair and had just started twisting them into a braid. He moved towards her but then stopped and seated on an upholstered chair close to the door. He did not say a word and her neither. When her hair was done, she left the room and stayed away for a while. He asked himself if it was all there, a woman tending to her hair and some other minor beauty chores, and playing with his hat, was about to reach for the door. But some noises from the kitchen made his

THE MAN DOES NOT ENTER THE LIVING ROOM. HE WATCHES HIS WIFE THROUGH THE CLOSED WINDOW. WHEN SHE NOTICED HIM, SHE OPENS THE WINDOW A LITTLE AND TURNS BACK AT WHAT SHE’S DOING WITHOUT SHOWING TO HAVE NOTICED HIS PRESENCE THERE. THE THING GOES ON A LITTLE. THEN, THE MAN STARTS TO GO OUT THE FRONT DOOR AND ENTER FROM THE BACK DOOR, EVERY NIGHT AND DO STUFF WITH HER. THEN HE ACTES LIKE IF HE IS GOING AWAY BECAUSE THE HUSBAND IS GOING TO COME BACK, AND HE COMES BACK FROM THE FRONT DOOR.

THEN, ONE DAY THE HUSBAND PREPARES HIMSELF TO GO OUT. HE TELLS HER “I’M GOING TO BUY CIGARETTES” AND HE NEVER COMES BACK FROM THE FRONT DOOR.

ITEMS THAT MAKE THE HUSBAND:

  • THE HAT
  • A CERTAIN JACKET
  • THE POCKET WATCH???

Note about the Hades

Note: Reading again the short tale I posted on Monday (Ain’t no wise girl) I found it rather embarrassing but, at the same it, I feel it could be a nice frame for a collection of twisted, wicked, dreamlike tales. What do you think? Here is an abstract, a thought of the main character. I was thinking to make the girl a first person narrator but I am still not sure about it.

 

Sometimes I just want to cry until I am all tears and the tears run down the couch on the carpet, the tiles and their cracks. My tears flow deep in the cushions padding, entrapped there forever. They walk miles along the corridors tiled in black and white of this infinite place and out the unattainable door and down to the see. The tears squeeze between tile and tile and go through the underfloor to the underground. They wash the face of the tortured. They liquefy the dried blotches of blood. They bring new sadness to the desperation and flow and flow. They will never stop until I am done. They will never stop until I am only sadness running away from itself, dissolving into the sadness of the world.

Ain’t no wise girl

Note: usually, every Monday I post a piece about self-improving, but the other night I had a dream I could not let go off and this short story came out from it so naturally that I had to write it down and share it.

“Look away, look away! Look, away, look away…”

She kept saying to herself.

“Is it all true or just a game? Look away, look away…”

The summer was gone when, in the stormy morning, her car needed a refill of petrol and she had stopped at what seemed to be a gas station with a bizarre logo. She had just exited her car when someone had hit her on the back of the head and she had lost her senses. When she had opened her eyes, she was half naked in a cell, humid and cold, together with a dozen scared people. Some of them showed bandages on various parts of their bodies, some new and neat, some old and smeared with blood. The fourth wall of the cell, the one on the corridor, was made of bars and through that wall, she could see a cell just like the one she was held captive, with other people half naked, scared, dirty and hurt, just like her and her companions.

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8 – di storie e sassi

bon_bon_love La porta era socchiusa e la luce spenta. La donna entrò dopo aver bussato piano contro lo stipite.

– Scusaci, dovremmo smettere di domandarti cosa ricordi –

La ragazza voltò la testa di capelli ricci verso la donna che era entrata nella sua stanza. Alta, solida e scura, Lisa poteva avere forse cinquanta anni.  Il suo volto tradiva ore passate sotto il sole. I suoi capelli sciolti seguivano i sentieri di una vanità semplice e quotidiana. La vestaglia che indossava ben chiusa era di un pallido malva, fatta di un tessuto morbido, spesso e caldo. La ragazza le indicò la luna fuori dalla finestra.

– Ti chiedi mai se si sente sola? –

La donna teneva una mano sulla maniglia della porta e l’altra attorno a un bicchiere di latte.

– A tal proposito, ti ho portato questo bicchiere di latte per le fate. In queste notti cercano desideri da esaudire –

La criniera riccia si piegò di lato nella luce incerta della luna.

– Sono pericolose, ma se mettiamo del latte, ne berranno qualche goccia e passeranno oltre –

La ragazza si voltò del tutto e si sistemò meglio sotto le coperte, mentre la donna entrava e chiedeva di aprire d’un soffio la finestra. Il bicchiere pieno di latte era una panciuta campana guarnita di fiori. Le donne lo posarono sul davanzale in pietra e guardarono la luna riflettersi nel suo candore. Chiusero la finestra.

– Come sai tutte queste storie? –

Lisa fece un gesto nell’aria, come per allontanare una invisibile ragnatela e si sedette sul letto accanto alla ragazza.

– Vuoi una storia prima di dormire? –

La ragazza stava per rispondere ma la donna la fermò.

– Una storia prima di dormire può farti addormentare tranquilla o spaventarti a morte oppure darti da pensare sino al mattino. Devi sapere cosa stai chiedendo –

– Una storia va bene, comunque sia. La mia testa è troppo leggera e ho bisogno di qualche storia per riempirla –

– Ti serve un po’ di zavorra –

– Sì –

– Quando ero piccola, mia madre diceva che ero troppo magra, così magra e sottile che un colpo di vento avrebbe potuto portarmi via. Io non volevo essere portata via, Volevo bene alla mia mamma, a mio fratello, al mio papà. Così, non appena uscivo di casa, cercavo dei sassi per la strada e me li cacciavo in tasca, per essere più pesante –

– Questa è la storia? E’ bella –

– No, la tua storia è più triste. Risale alla nascita del mondo. Devi sapere che prima che tutto esistesse il dio Geb e sua sorella la divina Nut si amavano. Erano giovani e si amavano senza posa e senza sciogliersi mai. Fra i loro corpi non v’era spazio e l’universo era caos –

– Sua sorella? –

– Sua sorella. Atum vide il caos nell’universo e ordinò a Shu, padre loro, di dividere Nut e Geb. Egli allora mise i piedi su suo figlio Geb e alzò le braccia in alto per scostare sua figlia Nut dal corpo del suo amato.  Fu così che la terra e il cielo si separarono e il mondo ebbe origine. Nut si piegò in un meraviglioso arco celeste e il sole, le stelle e la luna poterono splendere sulla sua pelle, mentre il fecondo Geb, bagnato dalle lacrime della sua amata, produsse fiori e frutti. Una volta separati, Nut partorì i figli concepiti nell’unione con Geb, due coppie di gemelli. Per primi nacquero Iside e Osiride, che si unirono in gioiose nozze e la storia del loro amore è il primo racconto d’amore e dedizione che l’uomo ricordi. Poi, nacquero Nefti e Seth –

La donna fece una smorfia.

– Nefti e Seth non si amavano? –

– Alcuni narrano che Nefti e Seth non si unirono mai, altri che Seth prese in moglie la sorella, ma non la amò. Si dice che con l’inganno Nefti ottenne di concepire il dio sciacallo Anubi da Osiride, che Iside la perdonò, perché capiva la sua pena, e che fu per gelosia che Seth uccise Osiride e ne disperse il corpo fatto a pezzi. Ma altri sostengono che la guerra di Seth e Osiride fosse una rivalità tra i due fratelli per la corona d’Egitto e null’altro e che la nascita di Anubi fa parte di un’altra storia –

– Mi sta venendo mal di testa –

– Per stasera ci abbiamo messo abbastanza sassi. Cerca di dormire. Una buona dormita fa passare quasi tutto –

Si chinò sul viso della ragazza e le diede un bacio sulla fronte. Poi camminò sino alla porta e uscì, lasciandola socchiusa.