Invited Musician: Hernâni Faustino (Double bass). Solo live @SMUP
Photo by: Ricardo Leiria
(I want to give a word of support to all women who are victims of violence. Hope that this year's numbers do not continue to grow)
Serene, calm, with a stiff, silent body. Lay between stones and rocks in a brief murmur of the sea.
Between strings and sighs, between blue and red.
For brief moments breathless and rhythmic.
Yes, she was brief. Brief in dreams and aspirations, delayed in the subtle touch.
The morning was heralded, and the odor of her body overcame the odor of the sea.
The calm of the night. The fear of the dark. The end.
Stab.
Stab.
Stab.
Dozens of stab wounds.
Love stab wounds in a momentary dead-lock of the madness of the other.
Dried, hard and short.
Once beautiful.
Once seductive.
Easy smile and dancing soul.
It was four o'clock in the morning when the accelerated footsteps heralded the rush to get nowhere.
She paused for a few seconds to breathe in the cool night air.
Stab.
The boat moored near the dock creaked with the tide and gently swung.
She marked her step. One after another in a frantic attempt to get nowhere.
It was four o'clock in the morning when he was approaching her in a race step.
He. Full bodied. Crazy with hate. Crazy. Final.
In a race raged with jealousy.
He was almost get close to her and to begin slowly to give her hard blows to the soul and to the flesh.
The soul no longer felt. The body began to stop feeling. Between numbness and jerky movements, the body moved uncontrollably.
The white dress was dyed red and she, in complete silence, kept her eyes on the horizon.
The adrenaline-pumping man laughed softly as he laid her down between rocks and sand.
He left in a firm and assertive step.
His head screamed with madness. The images were repeated one after the other.
The red-colored dress made him smile.
Almost mute, he clung to the memories. Many. One after another.
And he missed her. He enjoyed to see her run uncontrollably. He loved the fear. The agonizing spiral of power.
It was four in the morning.
It was four in the morning when she, exhausted, remained calm and quiet.
Without a single cry.
Mary.
Mary was, for thirty-four years, her name.
She said she had lived thirty and died in the last four. She had lost her tongue at thirty-one, covered her ears at thirty-two, dried her tears at thirty-three, and closed her eyes at thirty-four.
Thirty four.
It was four in the morning.
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