Era yo apenas un muchacho cuando se dieron aquellos acontecimientos, no me fío de mis recuerdos aunque me animaré a compartirlos como vayan emergiendo de las penumbras de mi memoria.
Ese día amaneció el cielo triste, digo triste porque al sol apenas le dio por asomarse en un mar de grises nubes, yo ya desde temprano andaba perdiendo el tiempo en el solar cuando una algarabía me hizo meter a la casa mientras a unos cien metros por el recodo pude ver que dos hombres traían una carga a toda la velocidad que podían.
Subí al cobertizo a toda carrera para mirar desde la ventana aquella escena, ví cómo Juan y Rubén lo traían cargado. En este punto dudo de mi memoria, pero me parece recordar que me miró mientras pasaba por debajo de la ventana en la que me había apostado por arte de la curiosidad.
Dejé la ventana y con sigilo pueril me acerqué hasta la puerta, agazapado cerca de la escalera ví que ya lo habían tendido en el sofá de la sala, un brazo le colgaba mientras Juan le abría la camisa, pero no había mucho qué hacer ante la magnitud de las heridas. Un cigarrillo temblaba en la mano de Rubén mientras su otra mano cubría su cabeza en evidente gesto de desesperación.
Un silencio rotundo inundó la habitación, se deslizó por los pisos y muebles hasta subir la escalera que me separaba de la sala; un escalón tras otro serpenteó hasta anidar en mi garganta. Ya en este punto dudo de cuanto narre. Lo último que recuerdo es la mirada compasiva de mi hermano Juan mientras me abría la camisa, recuerdo como la escalera se hacía añicos en un remolino de luz y me absorbía en un vórtice eterno, recuerdo el silencio rotundo muriendo en mi aliento. Es lo último que recuerdo de aquel día. El día en que morí.
ENGLISH
I was just a boy when those events took place, I do not trust my memories although I will dare to share them as they emerge from the shadows of my memory.
That day dawned with a sad sky, I say sad because the sun was barely able to show itself in a sea of gray clouds, I had been wasting time in the lot since early in the morning when a commotion made me go into the house while a hundred meters around the bend I could see that two men were carrying a load at all the speed they could.
I ran up to the shed to watch the scene from the window, I saw how Juan and Ruben were carrying the load. At this point I doubt my memory, but I seem to recall him looking at me as he passed under the window where I had stationed myself out of curiosity.
I left the window and with puerile stealth I approached the door, crouched near the stairs I saw that he had already been laid out on the sofa in the living room, one arm was dangling while Juan opened his shirt, but there was not much to do in view of the magnitude of the wounds. A cigarette trembled in Rubén's hand while his other hand covered his head in an evident gesture of desperation.
A resounding silence flooded the room, crept across the floors and furniture until it climbed the stairs that separated me from the living room; one step after another snaked its way up until it nestled in my throat. At this point I doubt how much I narrate. The last thing I remember is the compassionate look of my brother Juan as he opened my shirt, I remember how the staircase shattered into a swirl of light and sucked me into an eternal vortex, I remember the resounding silence dying in my breath. That's the last thing I remember of that day. The day I died.
Imagen de Pixabay editada en CanvaTexto original de @joalheal/ Text from @joalheal
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
Otros Relatos propios/ Another stories from me
| Título | imágen |
|---|---|
| Despertares |  |
| Cartas desde el frente |  |
| Cosas que oí por ahí |  |
| El pacto |  |
| La Mano |  |
| Bestia en la arena |  |
| El granuja |  |
| La Estrella de Sulema |  |
| El oficiante |  |
This is beautiful, full of imagery that, like the silence in the story snakes its way into our consciousness. You pull the walls down that separate here from there, the present from the past. Reality is amorphous. Only one thing is clear at the end. We are hearing this story from someone who has died.
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It is a powerful piece of writing, powerful and prolific in imagination.Hello, @joalheal! The narrator makes us read the story twice to make sure he is describing how his own death occurs and how the silence of death reaches out to the frightened spirit watching and overtakes him to reunite body and soul.
Thanks for your visit and comment! Thanks!
Bonito relato, gracias por compartirlo @joalheal
Gracias por la visita y comentario!! Saludos!