"A writer inside a cage" (short-fiction)
I spent time working until I reached extreme exhaustion, while in my chest darkness was swirling. And it will have been days, I suppose, but at some point they let us go to pray.
I thought of my mother as I bowed down before God.
"God, tell me you were with her, because you were not with me," I said sobbing. Someone put his hand on my shoulder. "Easy," he said. I have seen it. We talk for a while. Then he asked my name. "It's very deep," he said and gave me his. "Sigmund, it's a very bitter one," I replied. We laugh.
As Sigmund knew I was a poet, he always managed to get me napkins and feathers. So I started writing my first book in rags.
"Then you had already suffered the horror of bombs when you were a child," he said. "And what happened next with you two?"
"After that, I held my mother from her stump to get school."
"And before arriving here?"
" That night we embraced with a stranger to not die. Then they brought me here."
"It's been three months. The soldiers told me. You are a great poet. Keep writing."
"They will make you worse if you get caught. Nobody is going to read me".
"Do not write to be read, but so that they do not forget you".
I did that. Sigmund continued to bring me napkins and news from outside, our captors were losing the war. We kept working. Sigmund told me the days of the weeks.
Suddenly, the war ended, and I had already finished writing my book. The captors had to eliminate all traces of their barbarism. They aimed their rifles against us. Sigmund, who knew the place well, hid me.
"I want you to write something for me after this is over, whatever the outcome may have been, leaving it hidden".
It rained metal bursts. After the calm I left. I saw Sigmund. He was talking to death. I took out a napkin and wrote:
"I imagine that one day we will see each other again. That some stranger will introduce us. That our names will be on the tip of each other's tongues, and that we will be happy to get to know each other. But now my soul weighs what these lines weigh, two grams; less than a hummingbird".
Ludwig Wittgenstein.
I put it in his fist... and I left.
Posted from my blog with SteemPress : http://seifiro.timeets.xyz/2018/09/08/a-writer-inside-a-cage-short-fiction/
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