Imi creste inima cand vad ca sunt si alti oameni interesati de scris. Pentru mine a fost un challenge sa ii zicem pe englezeste, pentru ca nu am mai scris povestiri pana acum in engleza. Daca vreti sa va delectati/sau nu, pun mai jos prima povestire pentru grup, dupa tematica "anger" - de care eu m-am cam indepartat cu gratie. Totate povestirile, alte tuturor celor care sunt de acord bineinteles, vor fi publicate si aici.
Si acum luati o cana de cafea si rabdare, ca urmeaza (din pacate in engleza, si cu greseli):
I can see some blood dripping from his upper lip on his lower lip, making room through the cracks. His whole skin is cracked, I can almost see the flesh under it. The blood is burning over his arid skin. He’s licking his upper lip, but he’s out of saliva, so the blood doesn’t go away. The only thing that happens is his blood smudging his cracked and dry mouth, and his evil teeth. Teeth that bite from inside his cheeks. I want with all my being that he’s got one crack for each and every bruise that he ever gave me.
I scoop my legs under me. It’s cold, the sandstone is cold, and the wall is stinging me. I feel I’m going numb. I can see his snake’s tongue, like a metallic saw, cutting through each piece of innocence I still have left.
I’ve been growing here. At times when kids were going to Dad’s Day fairs, I was home, under the table, shaking, knowing that he would come home and throw an empty bottle at me. He never did. I was hoping he would, and then we could be friends. Some kids at the shelter were saying that that happened with them and their dads. I feel sick. So much trust, so many hopes, so much misery, for nothing. So many childish dreams. The only thing I learnt from him is how to swear. And how to stay still when I just want to hit him so hard that he would ask me to forgive him.
One second, and the shower hose is eating again at my flesh. One second of not paying attention, on the cold tiles. And his bloodshot eyes. I’ve never seen so much hatred in my life. With every day, with every blink of eye, with every drop of air that he sucks, his hatred grows bigger and bigger. Sometimes, when I count my bruises, I wonder how much hatred it takes to suck him in, to make him the Hatred Man. We could learn at him in school and the small girls would know to stay away from him, when they are grown up women. They at least would never marry a Hatred Man and thousands of children would be spared. My leg is aching.
I tried once to drink some washing powder. To clean away whatever’s wrong about me.
He’s shouting at me, and I cannot make myself smaller than this. I would like to be a fly. Stinky, ugly fly that no one cares or bothers about. I can fly over shit. I’ve been in shit for such a long time, that now I want to see how it looks from above. I feel I could yell. Not scream, I’ve done enough of that. Just in my dreams, as to not wake up the soon-to-be Hatred Man.
I wrote my will. It was easy to write, I have nothing to give. I just wrote that I leave all my longing, and all my hopes on my mother’s tomb. Then I got myself an A4 with his face printed on it. I stuck it on my face. And I waited for him.
He came late. I could hear him clearing his throat and spitting in front of the door. I straightened up. He opened the door, stepped inside. I was with my back at the door. He shouted at me, to go. Or face him. He’s smelling of alcohol and whores. I tightened my grip on my mother’s picture. He undid his belt and struck me. Once. Hard, with all his power. I turned, and the picture fell from my hand. He saw it, and he saw his picture on my face. I could feel the world shattering on me. On him. He was sitting in front of me, dumb. I tried to pick up my mother’s picture. He hurried up to get it before me, got tangled up, and fell on the ground. He was crying. With all his Hatred Man heart, with his entire weight, with all his loneliness, all his anger, all his unclosed wounds. And from that moment on, I knew I loved him.
I scoop my legs under me. It’s cold, the sandstone is cold, and the wall is stinging me. I feel I’m going numb. I can see his snake’s tongue, like a metallic saw, cutting through each piece of innocence I still have left.
I’ve been growing here. At times when kids were going to Dad’s Day fairs, I was home, under the table, shaking, knowing that he would come home and throw an empty bottle at me. He never did. I was hoping he would, and then we could be friends. Some kids at the shelter were saying that that happened with them and their dads. I feel sick. So much trust, so many hopes, so much misery, for nothing. So many childish dreams. The only thing I learnt from him is how to swear. And how to stay still when I just want to hit him so hard that he would ask me to forgive him.
One second, and the shower hose is eating again at my flesh. One second of not paying attention, on the cold tiles. And his bloodshot eyes. I’ve never seen so much hatred in my life. With every day, with every blink of eye, with every drop of air that he sucks, his hatred grows bigger and bigger. Sometimes, when I count my bruises, I wonder how much hatred it takes to suck him in, to make him the Hatred Man. We could learn at him in school and the small girls would know to stay away from him, when they are grown up women. They at least would never marry a Hatred Man and thousands of children would be spared. My leg is aching.
I tried once to drink some washing powder. To clean away whatever’s wrong about me.
He’s shouting at me, and I cannot make myself smaller than this. I would like to be a fly. Stinky, ugly fly that no one cares or bothers about. I can fly over shit. I’ve been in shit for such a long time, that now I want to see how it looks from above. I feel I could yell. Not scream, I’ve done enough of that. Just in my dreams, as to not wake up the soon-to-be Hatred Man.
I wrote my will. It was easy to write, I have nothing to give. I just wrote that I leave all my longing, and all my hopes on my mother’s tomb. Then I got myself an A4 with his face printed on it. I stuck it on my face. And I waited for him.
He came late. I could hear him clearing his throat and spitting in front of the door. I straightened up. He opened the door, stepped inside. I was with my back at the door. He shouted at me, to go. Or face him. He’s smelling of alcohol and whores. I tightened my grip on my mother’s picture. He undid his belt and struck me. Once. Hard, with all his power. I turned, and the picture fell from my hand. He saw it, and he saw his picture on my face. I could feel the world shattering on me. On him. He was sitting in front of me, dumb. I tried to pick up my mother’s picture. He hurried up to get it before me, got tangled up, and fell on the ground. He was crying. With all his Hatred Man heart, with his entire weight, with all his loneliness, all his anger, all his unclosed wounds. And from that moment on, I knew I loved him.
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