By Barbara Audisio
I have to go. Staying here more has any sense, it’s not my place, not anymore, and I did not even notice when it ceased to be mine. Memories is, transparent, shiny like smoke, like a slide of cellophane paper on which you can only look through without being able to focus images.
The dog has followed me home, up next to my bed, where I lay for a moment to get up almost immediately.
I have to leave, leave and don’t even know where or who or what to look for. We can’t stay here. There is no food, no alive soul, there is nothing but silence and toxic air.
He stares at me holding his tongue hanging out. He seems to understand me, he seems to keep his eyes on me like I’m the same as him, like I was the last thing he has left here and knew that I’m the only thing has sense. I’m glad I found him, he makes me feel less alone.
The memory comes back to me as fleeting flashes of light, like a curtain opened and closed on small window whit dirty glasses. I remembered to have a pack of cigarettes hidden on the bottom of a drawer, behind a couple of books and glasses that are not mine (I see well and so they do not belong to me). Who knows why there is a pack of cigarettes hidden in a place like this. Perhaps to resist to the temptation to smoke or perhaps because in my previous life I had decided to stop smoke, and that gesture was a seal.
Now it does not matter.
He stares at me while I turn the cigarette in my hands. I smell it. It has a pungent smell, but good. I close my eyes and when I open them he’s still there, his brown eyes on mine. He has no reason to look away, nothing move around, there is no noise, no distractions.