It was raining, and the man with the Umbrella with the colorful umbrella of words, dreams, and cats was covered with greyish, heavy, oppressive dust.
The umbrella lay on the ground, worn and crooked.
The man was bent and praying, his hands trembling, and he prayed, even though his hands could not join, he would never have it, they trembled as the car from the passenger side floor picked up a fruit box from the car. Wrapped in a white, red and blue blanket, there was a living red, gray, red coat.
Stay with me, said the man who had left his umbrella and his shirt at the center of life, pain and resistance in front of himself.
He looked for help from the doctor of the cunning suit. He looked at him, perhaps thinking it was a box of oranges, swollen, shaky, and fighters. He looked up and looked at the man, now back boy,
As if it were a naive and stupid child, with his dreams like babies with glass bones that could be crushed to the slightest touch.
“What do I have to do?”, she said.
What should I do? Not a soul, a spirit, a body, a will, a heart.
One thing, number, object, nothing on the lime of nothing.
“Morphine,” said the doctor, placed the enormous butterfly in the saddle and nervous nipple like my arm as she, inside the cassette, screamed, and inside, with her, as she whispered in my mind to take me away from here, I brought home, but the morphine dispenser assured me that he would be better there, and once again the man, the boy, I, was wrong.
And the man with his torn shirt leaned over her, told her I loved you, it’ll be all right, but she’s out of the shit crap he’s not real and you know it and screams again.
I think of it, “said the dispenser of morphine, but the man did not see or hear anything apart from her, and the echo of her yells in me knowing she would hear her forever.
It went wrong.
The man with no umbrella and shirtless came back, the cat was now a bunch of bullshit bruised and not liked.
But before that, when the hand with the morphine syringe spoke, the man fell and fell, fell inwardly on a cold and aseptic floor that sometimes knew of beings treated without dignity,
Numbers and not names that do not have the right to suffer or feel, normal people who do not feel anything.
“Can you put it or take it away so?” , she asked.
“The usual one,” I said.
Satori.
And in her mind, a light bulb lights up.
Understand who I am.
I’m Luke. I’m Romeo, Monet and Ladycat. All of them.
The multiple lethal injections for Romeo, the cat that was the dead man walking, but he did not give up.
What in the time of a cigarette, for the time necessary to take the damn cardboard box, came out of the fog of pain, which caressed the cat that was to be visited but
That perhaps he would have met the final syringe, spoken to sweethearts by the little girl who told him “you really love animals”, the scared and confused lady, to the same veterinarian.
Because I had seen the cancer that was gnawing her cat, who gave her a hand, said something comfort and greeted her with a gentle touch on her shoulder.
What was forgotten all five minutes later. But so is life.
And finally the man with the broken umbrella and the tattered shirt came out with a empty empty fruit box with a white, red and blue shawl.
And a cardboard box full of ghosts and her.