thenemophilistpoet
" The grass has been cut recently, but the shutters are closed; there are no voices coming from within. The murmurs of the leaves are the only whisper that breaks the silence of this moment.
Mom seems incredulous, she smiles, but I think I can see the rain inside her eyes.
The dance of the leaves is suddenly interrupted by laughter.
Distant laughter, it is difficult for me to understand the direction from which it comes; so distant that it seems to carry a veil of nostalgia, as if it were only past memories, as if it were an impossible desire to reach; so distant that, slowly, it seems to suffocate, get trapped in midair; so distant that it turns into lamentations.
Now, that hum of ephemeral joy has changed into piercing screams, screams of fear, screams of pain; the screams know, they know what's going to happen. The last screams of life. And finally, screams of death.
We are paralyzed; our feet have become rocks, our eyes glaciers that want to melt, our mouth the desert, our hands fronds at the mercy of the wind.
The handle is lowered and the door of the big house slowly begins to move, until it becomes wide open.
A figure emerges from the shadows of the interior, leaving them behind.
It is impossible to perceive its somatic or physiognomic features, as the body is completely covered by a scarlet-red cape with a hood.
The individual is turning cautiously in my direction, keeping its head down.
Now it is running towards me. "