giovedì 13 giugno 2013

The prey is going to death

I awoke with a start for the barking of dogs and I became aware immediately to have the hands drenched in blood. What had happened? Or rather, what I had done?
I did not remember anything, but men and beasts were hunted me. Terrified, I began to run, to flee, through that place, gloomy and grim, as my future. Those men launched their angry wild beasts to me, towards one their similar, unaware of their own guilt.
I arrived to the frozen lake and I fell to the ground, victim of extreme effort. My image was reflected by the ice, I was dirty and emaciated. Drops of blood were trickling down from my forehead, tainting that icy mirror. That warm and red rivulet of my life was leaving me and I understood, or just remembered, that blood on my hands was mine.
What kind of blame then?
Rabid dogs, properly trained, assailed me, and for me was only heartache and pain. I opened again the eyes, encrusted with tattered shreds and tears, catching sight lifeless, the fiery gaze of my predators. Those people, those men, had the same my face and my appearance.
Last breath and died, I guess.
This was the end of my human side, of the soul good, naive.
That day they were all proud, satisfied; except me. Finally I was growing up. Finally I had become a modern man. 


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