The stag hunt with the scarlet heart

Chapter 37 "And it happened... the imminent explosion"

I'm trying, but I keep falling. And this is another one of my fair warnings that apparently has no precedent. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I'm giving all of me, I wanna be strong, you know that. I'm telling myself that I can do it all by myself, and since I'm not trying to ask for help to get out of this hell, I hit the wall of memories. The ashes fell around us like a veil covering everything.

I can't pretend to be strong anymore because fear came and drove me away. His words came, and now I'm lost, his words made me hit the ground. His words have destroyed me and what I believed so wholeheartedly has become a living reality...

His handwriting is big and bold. He ends each word with a curve. And what doesn't surprise me are the hand drawings on some pages.

Galena, October 2011

Saffron,

When we were immature...

When we thought someone could save us...

When we thought we were superheroes...

It was the warmest moment of my life. I remember it now. I remember doing the calculations and thinking it through:

In order to be a fast runner, the upper part of the body must be at a 45-degree angle to decrease wind resistance. The center of gravity is on the left to maintain speed without becoming tired, my feet remember the height and number of stairs to your room, 9, 10, 11, ground.

With athleticism and instinct to reach you, dodging the obstacles, I have to be faster than your mother, the dawn of hope like a beep in my head to keep her from breaking your heart even more.

My poor Saffron, I must be faster.

I could never get there in time to stop the barbed wire from wrapping around you anymore, I could never stop your heart from getting another crack, I could only get there to try to arrange your pieces and put them back together.

We went through it so many times, at such a young age. And my heart aches for the children we were. Forced to think and do adult things.

Galena, September 2011

It was at that age... poetry came into our lives, I know. I don't know where it came from, whether it was winter or fall, whether it was that God who died so unjustly, the one you believed in because you loved his way of loving, because he gave you illusions of happiness that never came, or it did, maybe because you asked for it...

It came in the form of a flawed human being.

I don't know how or when.

They weren't voices.

They were the leaks from that faucet that frightened us as if a ghost was watching over our souls.

I would have accepted it if they had gone to the same place.

It wasn't the words, it was the rain that unraveled the curls in your hair, your shivering body clinging to mine like a lifeline, and no one ever loved the cold and the rain as much as I did when I was near you.

It wasn't the silence. It was your skin with the faint glow of an intermittent sun that used to haunt you.

It was something I didn't know how to say. My mouth couldn't say your name. My eyes were blind, and the lens of a camera could only focus on you.

Something happened that day when I saw a girl with sloping shoulders, her curls covering part of her face, and it started in my soul. My heart fell away... into the wind.