por Cristina Bresser
Postado em 10 de Maio de 2018 às 15:14
I need to sleep tonight. I am so worn out. I am going to turn off my phone. I need to sleep. Pass out. Thirst. The gun does not shoot. It disassembles in my hands, face to face with the assassin. He is going to kill us. A car driving fast. Car chase, darkness, adrenaline. I must save my sister. Loud music, he cuts me off. Hey, look at the water channel, we won’t make it. The sociopath stays side-by-side with us, pulls down the window; it is the end. His face is Tio Roberto’s. Why uncle, who is actually taking care of auntie at the hospital? He is wearing a mask to trick us. Thirst. I turn on the light, drink some water and on my way back from the bathroom, I switch my phone on. Lost call. Lost forever. I knew it. Nobody expected it but I knew she was going to die. She would not bear being dressed, washed, cleaned, ordered dos and don’ts. “No. I can do it. Ok, I’ll handle it. I want to drink water in a real glass, not in a plastic one with this damn straw. Damn it. Diapers? You must be out of your mind. I can walk to the toilet, absurd”. She is exactly like this now. No diapers. No bras, either, no makeup. She would never, ever leave home with no bra, no makeup and no jewelry. And this bloody funk inside my head; I came here ready to attack. I am going to throw it at your face. Funeral home sweepstakes. Bizarre. Central Mourning Sweepstakes. Bizarre. Pick up the corpse, choose a coffin. Very bizarre. She wanted to be cremated. The necessary arrangements. There will be no vigil, but she is going to be dressed in this brand new, white linen tailleur with tiny black stripes intersecting each other. The black Chanel shopping bag is still on the table, messing up the room. Coco would be proud of her. I am going to cry. Golden necklace. Where are the matching earrings? Oh, they are hanging from the tailleur’s collar. I thought they were brooches. Tell them to make her look decent, with sophisticated and bright makeup. She is dead already, she does not need to look like a defunct, Madame Tussauds’s model. Do not let them put white flowers, for God’s sake. She was colorful, tacky, beautiful, light and loose, ready to kiss somebody on the mouth. She will never, ever, kiss somebody again. Not on the mouth, nor on the cheeks, not even those ladies’ kisses in the air. Order some red and pink, vibrant, fragrant flowers, nothing like pale deceased-looking flowers ¬ being dead is enough for her. Dead. Tia Gloria is dead. I need to cry.
Consultoria em Carreira e Desenvolvimento Humano.