I remember all the details.
The walls were white but on closer look, there, at the joint at the ceiling, you could see that the paint had yellowed. I remember thinking, that perhaps he smoked. There was also a crack in the left corner of the room. It should be long and he had clumsily hidden under a poster of Iron Maiden, but the last of the forks breaking up climbing up there.
What else?
Heaven. Gray. Dark. Late one winter afternoon. He had lousy all day and I saw through the window light falling more and more. He must be eighteen or nineteen hours. And I do not know how long I was there. The clock above the door was no longer working, the big hand stumbled hopelessly against the twelve, as a rough nervous tic.
I still remember the shelf above my head. I saw the books lying horizontally, and I had to concentrate to read the title backwards. Some manga. A classic. Rousseau, I think. A new Henry Miller. I have no a priori, usually, but this time I was surprised.
There was also a light bulb hanging from the end of bare electric son. Bits of tape on a wall. Heavy boxes at the top of the cabinet, crossed a sticker "Fragile". A magazine page, coarsely torn and posted near the window. A nail. Scales. Vacuum.
I remember everything you see. I remember especially his rough skin.
I told them everything, everything. Given all the details, all the information. But they said it would not be enough to stop it.
0 comments:
Post a Comment