It was beyond her comprehension how she ended up in that situation. What was she thinking accepting a deal like that? Her arrival to that wedding was the grave of her freedom. She was tempted to ask the driver to turn back, to leave at once and let her flee to her freedom, maybe to a not-so-prosperous future but at least she would be free to make her own choices.
When my train reaches Berlin, will you be waiting on the platform of the station for me? Will you be willing to forgive and forget all the silly mistakes I made?
I imagine your slender figure, your face standing out of the many impatient faces on the platform, your awkward smile on your lips trying to restraint your feelings, the crazy hair and that fixed gaze of yours.
It was her favourite spot in the house, that little corner with all her memories framed, the white sofa, light entering through the curtains, and that big cozy blanket, always ready to accompany her with a steaming cup of tea.
I can’t sleep. It’s one of those moments in my life that whenever I go to bed I just toss and turn hopelessly. I stare at the white ceiling, remembering the star stickers I used to have many years ago, how I look at their luminescence waiting for the sleep to come. Whenever I felt distressed or worried about something, I just stare at the stars, until I finally fell asleep.
Once I visited a town, a northern town, where old brick houses could tell many horror stories of desperation.
One of them caught my eye. By the window I saw a figure through the white curtains. She was staring out, completely frozen, her gaze fixed on the children playing with a football in the street. I stopped looking for a fragment of a second as the football almost hit me, and when I stared back, the window was empty, just the white curtains retaining the smallest of movement as the figure left.
My job kept me occupied most of the time, but I tried to visit that window a few times a week, then everyday, and as I grew obsessed with the figure I couldn’t help to scape work to visit The Window. I was supposed to stay in that northern city for a couple of weeks, but I kept postponing my return, I just wanted to see the figure, the mysterious woman I saw everyday, always staring out The Window, inexpressive, through the curtains, hoping she would look at me at last.
Finally she looked back. She looked back!!! Her dark eyes focused on me as a smile run through her face, I felt a shiver as she smiled more and more, her pale hand touching the glass of The Window, her gaze upon me kept me frozen at the other side of the street. I even remember hearing an eerie piano music coming out of that brick house before it turned into a whistle, a high pitch that finally made me collapsed.
The next thing I remember is the bright light of what seemed a hospital, and me asking as from the most remote of places where was the woman I saw. “No one has lived there in the last century” I heard. But I knew I saw her, I saw her by The Window.
I’ve always been afraid of the sound of the telephone. It means bad news. And no-one, especially me, wants bad news.
My phone, as it happens in many houses, is at the end of the corridor, like a totem, all alone on a table made just for it, as a king, the king who looks at his servants with disdain. The telephone controls us all, with its silence and its continuous black cloud of news, of bad news. From the moment you enter the house, you can feel its presence, the power it holds. If it was a person you could even see it scoffing at you, oh powerless mortal waiting forever for a call with the bad news you fear so much.
Near the way to the mountain, not so far from the village, there’s a path that leads to a stream hidden under the grass and ferns. Only the eldest of the village remember the story of the Witches who lived beyond the boundaries of the forest, following up the stream and under the old oak tree. There, just there, lay the entrance to an unknown world of mystery.