After centuries really, since the second chapter of this original story. I wrote this afternoon, preferring to write books ... I do not know what will be happy with my professors, but the return of the inspiration of the past month has been really more satisfactory than any school vote!
Title: I went where the wind calls me
Chapter: 2 / 10
Rating: for all
Genre: romantic and melancholy
Disclaimer: David and Martin were created by me and therefore my own. ^ ^
Notes: written for the community seven notes.
Song: "The bomber" Fabrizio De Andrè
Words: 421
GO WHERE THE WIND CALL ME
In now I have a big lump in my throat. It hurts. Prevents me from crying. I hardly even think about, being able to line up just short disconnected phrases.
I spent the morning at the window, unsure whether to look out or not. I lowered the shutter to resist temptation in that stupid ticket wrote that clearly does not want the wheels, and as far as the hate in this moment I want to respect his wish.
The stomach growls for the umpteenth time. I try to ignore it for a while ', but eventually give in, at least this is a pain that I can quench, in contrast to what afflicts my heart. Wobbly on his legs stiff and uncertain arrival of the fridge. I take a bottle of milk and poured a bit 'in a cup. See the cup on the shelf of my sister puts me through yet another dense: we had bought together last year, the Christmas markets in a very cold day. I remember that warmed my hands by blowing on, while back home, waiting for the hot chocolate to boil. The red we had selected because they were Christmas, but mostly because they were gay. David could not find work in those days and we will definitely need some ', of joy.
grab a package of cookies and go back on the wicker chair to observe the shutter. He has always liked a lot these cookies. Chopped them and left them to soak, then pull up that kind of dough with a spoon. To me it has always been a bit 'suck, but now I find myself doing the same thing, in a vain attempt to feel a bit' closer.
It still seems all a dream ... Relax your head back and I listen, hoping to hear a melody, a bit 'wild, derived from the strings of the guitar which he holds above all else. But all that I can grasp is the patter of rain that starts flat and then becomes more and more insistent. I listen to him kidnapped for long moments, until a curse I come to our lips.
"Shit! The laundry! " I think, forgetting for an instant all the pain I feel deep in my chest. I run out the door barefoot and I rush to the clothes we have, damnation, we have placed on the back. His black pants are clearly in conflict with my white linen. The view is breathtaking to me: make it so real his memory ... Suddenly I melt and the phrase "There are those who wait for the rain to keep from crying alone" (*) takes for the first time really meant.
(*) taken from the song "The bomber" Fabrizio De Andrè.
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