I wasn't

Dołączył: 05 Mar 2024 Posty: 1

I'm half sitting up in my bed with a look of excitement, I have a toy bus and a toy airplane in my hand. I feel sorry, a little sorry for a sick Spanish child born during the second Franco regime in a normal family of those who neither lived from the war nor those who had lost it. Although my maternal grandfather, yes. Yes he had lost her. But let's look at me. It is the house where my parents and I lived in Villaverde Bajo (and my newborn brother, or about to be born, or in the making), near the train station, which had indeed lost the war. The train station, I say: they had to remake it next to where their ruin was and their memory of death, destruction and Victory. I'm in my bed, in my pajamas, white pajamas with little drawings. And I want to look sick. Little, but bad. I must have had a fever those days, for sure.

I don't want anyone else to come into my room. I screech. I'll cry a little too. I cry, I insult the doctor or whoever just came in. My mother is not angry, neither is the man. But I do. I'm more scared than angry. But angry too. Doctors scare me. They scare me. Like chickens, and UAE Phone Number even dogs and cats. Animals in general. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I feel strange, I'm hot and I'm cold at the same time. I want to get out of here, go out to the balcony and start pretending to sing, roll a fake cigarette and start telling the Mistetas joke to my cousins, to everyone. I want to go to my grandparents' garden, which is on the next street, and breathe in the smell of life from the plants that fill everything. And eat marzipan. Eat the things that my grandmother will bring me if I go to her house, which is next door, just across the street.

But right now I don't want the doctor to come closer, as it seems like he is coming closer. I tell him everything. Swear words they don't let me say. I'm telling you, I think all of them. I'm still half lying on my bed, now my eyes are closing. I am a small child, I am seeing myself in a very large room with very old furniture, few and old. My bed is made of metal, like gold, the quilt is very thick, perhaps, and the pillow is huge. I want to sleep, my mother comes over and gives me a kiss. She has just said goodbye to the doctor, who finally managed to diagnose me. I get sleepy. I was not one of the children who still in those s died from remote diseases with remote names and remote smells. I wasn't. Dream.

Wysłany: Wto Mar 05, 2024 08:35