It's been a month since I can not sleep. I am still lying on his back, eyes closed. At first, I did not react. I thought that his disappearance was not a lot of importance. I buried my pain, as always, unconsciously, almost by reflex. But at night, tired, me struggling in my sheets too big, I can not help but see it. The first few days, the feeling was more diffuse, almost imperceptible, as a slight discomfort, but as the days progressed, the more I feel it growing inside me. I smiled as his face on the photo in black and white grainy 20h broadcast that evening. The details escaped me, but I still have a specific recollection of the picture. The presenter spent only a few seconds to his death a few seconds between a teachers' strike and a topic in a safari park. Few seconds, like a nightmare, a few grains of sand and a jump. Then nothing. Nothing in the early days, and then she came. One night in an in-between muddy, foggy, she sat on the edge of my bed and started talking to me. Without even partially open her pale lips, she described her ordeal, violent beatings, the thud of his pelvis hitting the pavement, the taste of iron and rust in his mouth ...
When I got up this morning, I lost my balance. My forehead still bears the mark of the shock. My lower lip has exploded cons my teeth and rust has invaded my palate, a bottle green and red glow red, pale yellow waves before his eyes. It was September, it's still good and I go out for coffee. She follows me, sits next to me and continues her monologue dumb. His eyes never look dull to me. She tells me that we would have been her and me. At first I do not think, I do not want to listen to his ramblings. Denial, madness, fear, borderless up and I lose.
The fresh air does me good, I recovered, removed my jacket and threw it over my shoulder. I look forward to resuming classes, then pretend to forget really. Otherwise, I fear I will never get up, never out of his grave and can no longer escape his eye. I'm neither superstitious nor a believer, (which for me is the same thing). Yet I can not explain the intensity of his appearances, the force with which she keeps lying, eyes wide open. It's like those nightmares that I was a child when I could not move, and as the price of a superhuman effort I managed to wake me up, choked my cries and my lungs were dying in my throat.
I found R. and P. in the evening. We take a commuter train, miss our stop and spend the evening all three in an absinthe bar.
She comes to see me tonight.
Spring Brings the Rain,
With Winter Comes bread
