Manicomio

 

He was quiet and she could feel the closeness of his body, tense. It was not as if they were at a loud concert, two among hundreds, making it nearly impossible for her to hear him. In fact, they were in a silent space. They were all alone. In truth, she could smell him, grass and pine, but he was not there. She was in a gray room at the hospital, looking out the frosted window at the white nothingness of the snow covered street, repeating his last words over and over in her mind, waiting for him to realize the mistake he’d made when he dropped her off in this place where the nights were filled with screaming and terror, where she was slowly becoming like the rest of them: gnarled fingers, matted hair and dead skin.

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