The war is over

Old hand, Tuesday March 17 th

  I was standing in front of the mirror and the white skin, emaciated, it resembled in scandalous way to the lattiginoso stained with color the walls of the room.

  The look was absent and I didn't feel anything. Wet hair dripped on the shoulders. I passed you in mean the comb that marked some deep furrows.

  You/he/she was finishing the ventitreesima bottle of rum and me I had stopped breathing. I.

  I inserted the pants, I laced the shoes and I tightened the knot to the tie up to that it didn't hurt. I systematized the collar of the shirt and I inserted the jacket.

  The room was in disorder, the suits shed and different sheets were awkwardly stacked on the tavolino. I taken the first sheet and read my curved and messy calligraphy. I drained in an alone sip the rum remained in the bottle and I cleaned me the mouth with the back of the hand. I threw out of the inside pocket of the jacket a packet of Camel, I slipped me a cigarette among the lips and the turned on. Dry tobacco sizzled to contact with the flame. I blew the smoke above those words, I taken the pen and I began to write:

  I was standing in front of the mirror and the white skin, emaciated it resembled in scandalous way to the lattiginoso stained with color the walls of the room.

  The look was absent and I didn't feel anything. Wet hair dripped on the shoulders. I passed you in mean the comb that marked some deep furrows.

  You/he/she was finishing the ventitreesima bottle of rum and I had stopped breathing. I.

  I inserted the pants, I laced the shoes and I tightened the knot to the tie up to that it didn't hurt. I systematized the collar of the shirt and I inserted the jacket.

  The room was in disorder, the shed suits and a battery of sheets you/he/she was awkwardly stacked on the tavolino. I taken the first sheet and read my curved and messy calligraphy. I drained in an alone sip the rum remained in the bottle and I cleaned me the mouth with the back of the hand. I threw out of the inside pocket of the jacket a packet of Camel, I slipped me a cigarette among the lips and the turned on. Dry tobacco sizzled to contact with the flame. I blew the smoke above those words, I taken the pen and I began to write:

  I was twelve years old. I returned home from school, mother it was at work. As usual I opened the door and I launched the backpack on the armchair of the living room. Oddly the car of dad was in the path, it owed to have forgotten something that served him in shop.

  «Dad?! Dad?!»

  He/she didn't answer me. I looked for in the kitchen, in bedroom, in garage, in the replacement behind house. Strange, I thought, you/he/she has gone afoot perhaps to shop. I shook the shoulders.

  I raced in bath, the frenzy of the search had filled me the bladder. I took a seat me on the water, as mother you/he/she had taught me not to dirty, in sign of respect for my two sisters and for her. Dad and I were there very careful to this thing, they held a lot us.

  To my right, really behind the door, there was the playpen of the shower. There was inside someone. Dad.

  I quickly lifted the pantalonis and I opened the flowing door of the playpen. Dad was suspended, with a rope to the neck. And with the eyes still blocked it looked me.

  Dad was dead. Dad was killed. Dad was killed.

  I remember that didn't cry. I only closed me in my room while for house policemen's bustle, relatives and funeral pomps upset the peace of my mind.

  The night when Dad was hung for the neck taken a disk by my collection of vinyls, Harvest. I extracted him/it from the custody of cardboard, I stole above from you and I abandoned him/it on the turntable. I supported the head on the black furrow in the vinyl, some particles of dust dirtied the first arpeggios of guitar and then Neil it sang:

  Old hand look at my life

  I'm not like you were

  Old hand look at my life

  I'm not like you were