He stopped the car on the square in front of the house. He turned off the radio plunges into the passenger compartment in the silence of the road asleep. In the distance you could hear the screams of some guys that did a barrel. From somewhere came a noise like a motor or bellows puffing. It was disturbing because it seemed like the industrial sound that you hear in some scenes from the film Eraserhead by David Lynch. took the elevator and entered the house. Closed and smelled of broccoli, probably dinner neighbors. One, two, three, four: there were while he was down the shutter of the stay. walked down the long corridor leading to the bathroom, took off his shirt and washed his body with force. eyes still had the long deserted streets of the suburbs, on Casilina. The barracks abandoned landfills and huge shopping malls that seemed to forget architectures alien and incomprehensible, without all the people who was pressing in the parking lots with trucks and kids and shopping bags. The lights in the distance, roads that were lost in the narrow streets of villages, the cold of November. He never knew if those streets were empty, to convey the sense of loneliness, or return to the house silently at that hour of the night. While he wiped shoulders she pricked her finger at a pile that had to be very thick. Trying to look in the mirror pulled back with force. He felt a sharp pain that made him collapse on the sink. He noticed that his fingers were stained with blood, had made a terrible evil. - whore misery - he thought to himself. He returned to see what he had done, and it was then that he noticed the cut. A gash running from a point where he pulled that damn coat and crossed the shoulder, reaching almost to the clavicle. feels faint, he had never endured the sight of blood, and in general felt the horror of organic materials of the body, an attitude that led to the choice to live confined to his head, using the body as a tool to carry and allow the head to surround the things they needed: food, work, friends, books, movies, drugs. He briefly sat on the toilet, trying to recover and rationalize what happened: it was not a hair, it looked as if he had pulled a wire under the skin, or rather a bit 'deeper into the flesh, who came back and started from the clavicle. He got up and went back in front of the mirror. Hesitant went hand in what appeared to be a thick wire, such as nylon. He pulled slightly. It seemed to go down from the clavicle along who knows what kind of path into to his chest. He sat down again, thinking about what to do, disgusted and appalled by the blood from the bizarre discovery. Who knows how emerged from the recesses of memory the memory of the train in which he played as a child. A little engine that White walked with a spring driven by a toothed disks, each a little piece of music that was different. He remembered a carpet, the statues in a huge living room and dimly lit. pulled the wire a little longer, and that was chipped away by drawing a line, and red on his chest. He remained bent over in pain, his head resting on his knees. I wonder how he remembered, or thought to remember, a fire escape in the fog-hidden, perhaps out of a department store, the smell of leather, lights somewhere. now he was asking, as he tried to withstand the burning in his flesh, where and why that seemed to resurface these memories of a time lived and somehow buried somewhere. Stunned with grief, dazed, amazed and curious still pulled that kind of thread, slowly. He remembered a dark closet, and he beat on the interior light with an umbrella in the hope of being able to turn it on. He remembered the fear and the cold, panic and terror authentic. Continuing to follow that path hidden between the skin muscles and bones, other memories, nightmares and dreams overlooked the forefront of his consciousness, in a succession of images and sensations. Bedroom which faces faces contracts, horrible faces and figures gesticulating in an unnatural and arrhythmic. He was on now unlikely paths, dark, barely intelligible, immersed in a dark, milky and thick.
few days later the neighbor, noticing that the shutters were closed for days, and thinking that the boy was away, entered his house to water the plants. A mutual benefit exchanged when one is away from home to go stay with friends and relatives. The stench of closed stench was compounded by another, infinitely more poignant and unbearable, mixed with the smell of iron. He noticed that the toilet had been the light on. He walked down the long corridor with his slow steps old, weighing up the smell with heart and stomach, rather than with the nostrils. When he opened the door he saw blood everywhere, the body of the young, now unrecognizable, split lay in tatters everywhere. Before passing out only had time to recognize his severed head from the neck, lying on one side, and with dreadful eyes wide open and stared at her, and her lips now mute, deprived of the proper auxiliary of the lungs and larynx, tracing their last desperate message:
