The Cell

 I breathe in and I breathe out. I look at the ceiling and count its creaks, so that I do not have to think. Then I lift myself up: I breathe in and breathe out, already bored of breathing. I am not thinking just yet, but I can tell that I am about to, at least I am about to think that I am actually thinking.

It is tragic to be me.

It would be tragic for anyone, I know. My body is a fading brown and putrid cell and it is entirely my fault.

I stand up: I breathe in and I breathe out. I am concentrated: I perform the few actions that make myself her, the woman everyone expects me to be. A quick shower, a healthy breakfast, a light but polished make-up: I will be lying for the whole day again today.

Putting on a front, I leave my house, wave at the janitor and I get on the black car waiting on my doorstep. I know that, as soon as I step out of the car, I will no longer be myself. It will all be a rehearsal. I will be faking, even on the phone to my mother, telling her that I am fine and about a stupid story, that perhaps really happened but that could not be less relevant and superflous for me. I just stick to my script.

It is just when I am back home, late at night, that I cry.

This is how I met Leo, he used to be my psychologist. He fucks awesomely good.

It was just like that pervading light that, across the bars, warms your skin on the most sensitive spots of your face and provides you with a delightful feeling that you, motionless, enjoy with your eyes closed.

I should have known that he would dig deeper and deeper, until he would find me.

He not only saved me both professionally and emotionally but he also changed my life radically.

We felt in love, it was all so genuine and fantastic, now talking to my Mother was different, just like someone had found the real me.

Until, it was me to find him... in bed with Sarah. He was there, on her, sweaty and virile while she was screaming with that squeaky voice of hers, bitch.

I breathe in and I breathe out. I look at the ceiling and count its creaks, so that I do not have to think. Then I lift myself up: I breathe in and breathe out, already bored of breathing. I am not thinking just yet, but I can tell that I am about to, at least I am about to think that I am actually thinking.

It is tragic to be me.

It would be for anyone, I know. Locked in a fading brown and putrid cell, forever. 

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