Δευτέρα, 21 Μαρτίου 2011

Selma 477


Selma 477
My hair was greasy. The building smelled of cabbage stew. So did my hair. The dirty fingernails on the top of my fingers passed through it and got greasy too. Nobody ever told me I was fat. Not to my face. But I was. In a lot of unpleasant ways.
It felt like I had just opened my eyes. So I had. Nothing and nobody bothered to disturb my indefinite sleep in this cold and empty bed with the wrinkled sheet and the sodomized pillows. So similar to mine, as were the noises and the odors exhaling from the walls. Humid ocher walls. Pimples and whelps on my face. One of them hurt a lot.
My name is Selma. My family name is another’s man family. My first name is still mine. Until further notice. I loved the cabbage smell, I hated the pain.
I stood up and left the bed, looking at the mirror on the wall. For my good fortune it was a very small mirror hanged on two electric wires. Under the mirror there was a sink. In the mirror was my face. Beside the sink there was an old fashioned razor. I shaved the pain away and left the razor in the exact same place I found it. For a moment, it was beautiful. Then everything got red. My bloody and teary fingers passed through my hair as I went walking slowly down the corridor full of screaming and open doors.
When I reached the exit I looked up and there, high up in the sky flew a white horse with its eagle wings, an on top of the animal a blond, tall and handsome young man smiled at me. With all the joy of promised hidden preferences
The moment he grabbed me I felt an enormous smile on my face turned towards the building that was disappearing so fast, faster, so faster. . . . like a dream.
On the fourth floor, almost at the end of an ocher corridor spotted with blood drops, the door number 477 closed itself slowly . And silently. Someone shouted that the cabbage was ready.
And it was, indeed.
studiozlena.blogspot.com 22.02.2011