La voce del silenzio

La voce del silenzio

ilragazzoinvisibile1

LECTURES 114
Votes 2
Chapitres 1

En cours d'écriture<5 mins

Dernière publication mer., févr. 4, 2015

Sono Nicholas un ragazzo di 16 anni. La mia vita?uno schifo, all'età di 9 anni ho assistito alla morte dei miei genitori,in un incidente stradale. Mi ricordo che era una calda giornata estiva. L'unico ricordo che ho di quel giorno è l'ultimo sorriso di mia madre. Sono stato ricoverato in ospedale in coma per 3 mesi . Al mio risveglio ero solo infatti appena aprii gli occhi riuscii a vedere solo una ragazza di fianco al mio letto una ragazza sconosciuta, era così bella che sembrava un angelo, i suoi occhi non li dimenticherò mai. Quando mi ristabilii chiesi al dottore. < dottore,i miei genitori sono ricoverati anche loro qui? Come stanno?> Il dottore mi invitò a sedere <ascolta, non devi preoccuparti di loro, loro ti guardano e ti proteggono sempre in quel posto dove sono ora> disse il dottore indicando il cielo. A queste parole respirare diventó difficile e da quel giorno persi la parola

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Let me tell you my story, the one about how I died. Don't worry, though. I came back. They say when someone shares their story, they're sharing their burden. Seeking someone to help carry the weight that bends their shoulders, hoping their troubles will float away like helium balloons into the endless sky. Your silence becomes their sanctuary, a vacuum they fill with dust-covered memories. If you speak, do it gently - a nod, a smile, the ghost of a touch on their shoulder. But my story? It's different. It carved its path because trust becomes a luxury I could no longer afford. How could it not, when the one person who swore to never betray me did exactly that? The one who promised never to hurt me, broke me. The one who vowed to stay, walked away. So tell me, why trust anyone else when the person I trusted the most killed me in every way but physical? Until they managed that too. They say the most dangerous predators are the ones who look like prey. I learned this truth through split knuckles and shattered promises, through blood on my tongue and threats whispered against skin. Through playing weak while gathering my strength in darkness. Now I watch him, this self-proclaimed hunter in his own game. He doesn't see he's just another piece being moved across someone else's board. The mafia's golden prince, they whisper. If only they knew what lurks beneath that polished veneer. What dances behind those eyes that mirror the shadows I know so well. But shadows? They're born from fire. And somewhere out there, someone's striking matches, leaving black roses on cooling ashes, drawing closer with every corpse that falls. They call him Pyro. And when that name drops in a room. Well, let's just say I'm not the only one with secrets worth killing for. Some demons wear designer suits. Some victims wear crowns. And some fires are worth burning for. Welcome to the game. Trust no one. Not even me.

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