STORYTELLING: THE CAT IS DEAD

She sits on the bed and looks on the floor. She expects to see there the track of her desitiny, but nothing happens. She looks at him and says:

I am not afraid of loneliness anymore.

She thinks that looking at him makes it more personal. She deludes herself that she does it for him, but this is not true. She just want to give herself a human face when proceeding with this cruel act.

He doesn’t look at her. Stretched on the bed, with hands placed behind the head he stares into space. There are thousands of things he could say but decides not to. He thought for a second to shout or scream, but he couldn’t. There are no words in his head now. Just an emptiness.

I am sorry, she says. I thought we are perfect together, but we were not, she adds.

Released words fill the room in. They are empty and meaningless. They do not bring relief to him nor her.

What does it change what you have thought the other day? He asks.

She doesn’t reply. There is no answer to this question.

He closes his eyes. He thinks of a beach, of an island, of a funny cat image he saw previously. He is glad that a stream of consciousness took him away from the room for a second. There is nothing left here anyway, nothing to hold him back. The idea of Home he once had vapourised.

We can remain friends, she says.

He laughs.

Its like you would say, that my cat is dead, but I can still play with it, he says.

Their eyes meet. There is no proper way to end it, so she stands up and leaves the room. None of them looked back after this moment. They know that they cannot, if they ever want to be happy.

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