THE CHRYSALIS

The room is gloom. Only the lights from the street, neons and cars lights, get in the room through the Venetian blinds. Some furniture are vaguely outlined. One might be a display cabinet, since reflections on the glass doors. An other one is maybe a sofa. All rest of the room is hidden in the dark.

A flame appears. It's of a lighter. It lights up the holding hand. The hand is small and delicate, with well-groomed nails. Is a male hand, despite the smooth skin. The sofa is vaguely outlined by the flame. There are more furniture, but is not bright enough to tell what they are. Something moves on the floor. Something big. A feeble, stifled moan, almost a sob, comes up. The flame disappears and the room gets back in the dark. A scrape and the flame kindles again. In the small circle of light the other hand appears too. Is the left one. The Devil's hand, once called. Was it without a reason? This hand holds a barber razor. The hand disappears, a weak noise and it is in the light again. Now it holds a scalpel. It disappears e reappears again, grabbing a hunting knife. It's long and hardy. The flame goes out and the room gets dark again.

Suddenly the lights are on. A switch click resounds in the silent and the lamps illuminate the room, chasing away neons coloured reflections. There's a sofa, covered with that coarse fabric which makes skin itch. There is a display cabinet indeed. Three doors, out of fashion, decorated with some tacky trinkets. At the corner of the sofa, an armchair covered with the same coarse fabric appears too. In between the armchair and the sofa there's a low metallic coffee table, with a glass shelf. Onto which, upon a doily, a crystal ashtray is centrally displayed. No one must have ever used it. At its bottom a layer of dust has encrusted from years of careless cleaning.

There's something else near the sofa. A huge mass, lying between table and sofa. It's a woman. The massive body makes spaces look smaller then they are. She has got her wrists tied up. Ankles are tied too. Both with scotch-tape, the brown one for packaging. The same tape patches her mouth. Her eyes are wide-open and red from crying. They restlessly are staring at a forty-five degree point to her position.

A man smoothly steps in, coming into view with a short step. He is not tall. He wears a grey raincoat, has pale blonde hairs coming down into ringlets at both sides of his smooth face. His facial expression is almost childlike, but lips are tumid and wet, letting guess a warm, biscuits smelling breath. His grey eyes giving out a certain emptiness.

Sighing towards the woman on the floor he takes off his raincoat, tossing it out of the view. He rolls up a skirt's sleeve.

-You know, my darling-, he says in an unusually high octave voice,-we all wear a mask. Either to protect ourself or because someone putted it on to us.

He shakes his head in disapproval, while looking down as he rolls up his second sleeve.

-Today I'm gonna set you free from your mask. I'm going to bring to light who you really are.

He extends his hand at the back. Now the hand holds the razor. He takes a step forward, gets down on one knee on the woman. She want to wriggle, but has no strength. She hardly flails around.

-Don't struggle-, the man says blocking she with a knee on her chest. -I do it for you.

He grabs her chin, keeping her head still. Her throat is exposed. The razor quickly goes from one to the other side of her throat with a sharp, steady move. A red line appears. The blood starts to flow. The eyes wide-open, a sigh forms in the middle of her chest. A last quiver, then the huge body stay still. Her wide open eyes staring at the ceiling.

With expert movements of the razor, the man cuts the scotch-tape. Then he moves on to the clothes. Few precise cuts and the clothes are off to pieces and removed. The corpse is now naked. He stops. With critical eye he looks over the body he is about to start to work at. He acts with decision. He leaves the razor and grabs the scalpel.

With a hand he grabs one of the two big, floppy breasts. A few precise movements and it is severed, displaying the internal adipose tissue. He throws it behind his back. It hits the floor with a thump. He moves on to the other breast. With the same precision, also second breast is off and thrown behind his back. Now the scalpel starts moving down vertically cutting across the chest area in the middle, displaying the sternum. Helping himself with a hand, he begins to tear off muscular tissue from the ribs. He's dexterous. He shows large experience. The left hand side of the woman's breast is now completely off boned and turned over like the page of a book. He moves on to right side. Here the job is a bit imprecise, as he needs the right hand to handle the scalpel. When finished he puts down the scalpel and grabs the knife. He starts working on the area connecting the ribs to the sternum. He removes ligaments and breaks cartilage. One by one he lifts the ribs off from the hollows where they are lodged in. After, using hands, he forces them aside, to open rib cage.

When he comes at the last rib he is completely sweat. He draws off the sternum and throws it away. Then he stops to take a deep breath. The woman's eyes are wide-open, staring at him in extreme fear. The man wipes away the sweat from his forehead with an arm. Then having a sigh he holds out an hand to her face passing it over eyes to shut them. But just after a moment woman's eyelids open back and she stares at him again. He gazes away from a such wide-open stare and brings his attention back on the body he is dissecting. He retrieves the scalpel and starts working on the jowl. He cuts off the flesh from the bone displaying temporo-mandibular joints. Then the lips, starting from the lower to the upper one. The sallow, irregular teeth ring comes to light. He puts down the scalpel and gets the knife again. He props it at the nose's base and has it excised at once. Then he is back to the scalpel.

He incises into the nasal cavities where the upper lip was removed from, moving towards the cranium top, dividing the scalp from the skull, disclosing the sagittal suture. He works around the cheekbones, the superciliary arches, cutting the eyelids away. Both the facial skin and flesh come off like a mask, from the right to the left ears. The skull sneers at his executioner.

Using the scalpel he draws two red lines going from the mouth corners to the lethal cut. Then he puts down the scalpel and he is back to the knife. With the right hand he forces the mandible to open, pushing the knife peak into the articulation, until eradicating the two bone joints. The mandible is now hanging down by the right side. The same job on the other side is easier. He starts to pull, ripping off tissues which come apart while cutting the thicker ligaments and the palate section with the knife. A last jerk and the mandible is off the face, while the tongue is still attached to a windpipe stump, vein cordons and throat flesh.

With a satisfied smile the man contemplates his yet unfinished job. Something begins to come to sight. Something you wouldn't aspect to see. Thrown the mandible away on the sofa, he moves on to the pot-bellies of the flabby, fat stomach. He uses the knife, as the scalpel blade is not long enough to cut into the thick abdominal fat. He's careful not to touch the internal organs. He likes the smell of blood. But not the smell of shit. The abdomen is cut through up pubes height where he turns the two halves aside, displaying the heap of internal organs. Now his shirt is in a drench of sweat, and he is short of breath. He stops to get some air.

He stops to get some air as something starts to move. Something underneath the liver and the bowels heap. He's taking too long. She is beginning to suffer. Rekindle by a new energy he gets back to the unfinished job. He puts the knife down and with both hands pulls out the bowels, letting them slide under the glass coffee table. He empties the whole abdominal cavity. All the organs flow out with too little effort. He grabs the lungs, two pinkish flat heaps, and snatches them away from the the body. They come off with a suck. He gets up, the lungs in his hands. Some veins and part of the digestive system hanging down from pink heap and crawling across the floor, as he takes two steps. They are hanging like the coloured tail of a kite. The kite splashes on the floor.

Standing up he gives himself just a moment to watch what is coming up to light. Now that the rib cage is open, within emptied off internal cavities, a second body appears. It's weakly floundering, in pain.

Quick the man starts working on the skull, the hardest point. He hasn't got much energy any more. He must finish it off before getting completely exhausted. He starts from the sagittal suture, the most difficult part. He stabs it with the knife, pushing and forcing, rotating it to both the opposite sides, in the attempt to break it through. A light crick confirms he has managed to slightly cut in. He forces a little bit harder and the peak sinks in a bit more. Then he starts making leverage by turning the knife in between the cranium halves. The slit gets wider and blade gets in just a bit much deeper. He must be careful not to dig it into too much. A few centimetres down, then he moves the blade forward repeating the operation. This time the bone cracks loudly. With all his strength he turns the blade into the bone in order to widen the crack. The still groans, twisting and bending. It is close to break when the bone finally gives in. Among creaks and liquid noises skull vault splits in two.

He skilfully widens the crack, extending it up to the nasal cavities. Carrying on into nasal cavities with the knife's peak he cracks the jawbone too. He steaks the knife in middle of the incisors twisting it, and one by one he pops them out from the alveoli. He forces the knife into alveoli cavities, digging in. A second breakage makes its way through to the first one, almost merging with it, though missing it by a few millimetres. The knife is deeply inside the jawbone. A further light straining is enough to finally break the jaw open. In a gush of semi-liquid squirts he splits it in the middle. He drops the knife and grabs the two skull halves, widening them with his hands. With a final crack they open, displaying a hidden face all wrapped in a placenta, dirty with blood and cerebral matter trickling out into grey little streams.

Releasing all the air from his lungs the man almost sags. He hardly manages to recover. The job hasn't finished yet. He is now on her arms. He cuts muscles, severs tendons, breaks cartilages and wrecks joints up to the hand palm. Severed tendons dart away like broken guitar chords. They curl up, black and thin. Then he severs the second arm too, to subsequently move on to the legs. He sections the bulky, flabby thighs. He breaks the kneecaps to open legs at knee-level. He divides the tibia from the fibula, the anklebone from the navicular.

In the end the new body is completely visible. The face, undefined beneath the placenta, is clearly in pain. With caution, using just the knife peak, he lances the membrane. A colourless liquid comes out. The knife peak is blunt. He widens up the rip, the viscous liquid spurts out soaking his clothes. The placenta is completely torn. The girl, once hidden in the corpse, hiccups, then coughs. Her eyes snap open at the first, painful breath. Wonderful deep, green eyes. They wide-open at the world they see for the first time, like the corpse's eyes did at the same world they were to see for the last time. She coughs. Then begins to breathe regularly, even effortlessly.

The man is exhaust by the exertion. He puts the knife down on to the table. He smiles. His work is accomplished. Her bewildered eyes stare at him. She doesn't realize anything as yet. She tries to get up. He reaches his hands out to her. She looks beautiful. Her well defined body is perfect in proportions. Intelligence shines through the green eyes. Her wet hair are stuck all around both sides an oval, symmetric face. Struggling to get up, she slowly comes out of the dismembered remains of the body she used to be contained in. The man helps her to sit on the sofa and sits beside her. He looks at her with pride and delight.

The girl closes the eyes and sighs. A sob rises from deep down her chest. She swallows. With a deep breath she opens her eyes, lightly shaking her head. She opens her arms toward him. His eyes light up, his smile gets wider. He's joyful. He sinks in her arms hugging her back. She closes the eyes, swallows again, exhaust. Her eyes open back in a harsh expression. Her lips are clenched in a tight line.

-Too much... - she whispers. A hand reaches out on the table and firmly grabs the knife. -Too much...- she bitterly whispers again while rising the knife. -Too much pain!

It all fades to black. Just the noise of ripped flesh is heard.

Chi sei?

    Mi siedo davanti allo schermo del computer, osservando i grafici del mio blog. Vedo che qualcuno ha letto cio' che ho scritto, qualcuno in Italia oppure in America. E mi chiedo: chi sei? Chi sei tu, che ti interessi a me? Perche' quello che stai leggendo e' un pezzetto di me, un altro pezzetto che si e' rotto, che e' stato strappato via dalle tenaglie di parole dure. Quello che stai leggendo e' un frammento dello specchio che un tempo rifletteva il mio animo. O almeno io credevo lo facesse. Ma ci vediamo sempre piu' belli di cio' che siamo, negli specchi. Ed il mio specchio e' stato mandato in frantumi da una pietra, ben mirata o semplicemente arrivata a centro per casualita'. Il mio specchio si e' infranto, i suoi mille pezzi sono volati ovunque. Ed uno di questi pezzi e' arrivato a te, che stai leggendo cio' che ho scritto. E nuovamente chiedo: chi sei? Che volto hai? Come vivi? Perche' mi stai leggendo? Cosa trovi di interessante in me?

    Rispondimi, per favore...

Non lasciare che... / Don't let it...

    Tieni la mente impegnata, riempine di televisive immagini lampeggianti gli spazi, assordala di musica heavy metal, ucciditi di lavoro. Non lasciare che la mente vada da sola, che torni sui passi percorsi e si tormenti con cio' che poteva essere ma non e' stato. I rimpianti sono un peso che non puoi sopportare, adesso. Le tue colpe sono un giudizio che ti vede inevitabilmete condannato ad ammettere che potevi fare meglio, quindi meglio sfuggirle almeno per un certo tempo.
    Arrivera' il momento adatto per fermarsi ad affrontare i tuoi rimpianti.


   Keep your mind busy, fill its spaces with flashing television images, stun it with heavy metal music, kill yourself working. Don't let your mind going on its own, don't let it come back to the walked path, don't let it  torment itself with that that could be but never was. Regrets are a weight you can't afford now. Your faults are a judgement which says you are condemned to admit you could do better. Then had better to you to elude them, for a while at list.
    It will arrive the right time to stop and face your regrets.

Un anno e' passato / One year is gone

    Un anno e' passato, ma fa ancora male. Fa male rimembrare cio' che e' stato, mi affonda nella tristezza. Non c'e' rabbia ad aiutarmi, non c'e' niente per cui essere arrabbiato. Non posso accusare a vuoto, caricare di colpe che piu' che altro sono mie. C'e' solo il rimpianto per la mia incapacita', o per la sfortuna che mi e' toccata. Pensieri che in solitudine mi si presentano silenziosi, la coscienza di un fato che non si e' abbattuto come una scure, ma che e' arrivato come il semplice click di un paio di forbici. Sufficiente a recidere quell' esile legame che unisce due persone, e lascia volar via una delle due come un palloncino nel cielo.
    Prego che quel palloncino raggiunga luoghi migliori, mentre io, le radici affondate nelle mie convinzioni tradite, sempre piu' stanco, rimango a chiedermi quali siano le possibilita' di raggiungere una felicita' terrena, ora che la serenita' e' scomparsa, che tutti i progetti non sono piu' focalizzati su me stesso, ma proiettati al bene di qualcun altro. E perche' non consumarsi, allora, consungersi negli oscuri propositi che mi rimangono? Quali effettive speranze ci sono di completare qualcosa prima che la sabbia si esaurisca, prima che l'ultimo rintocco  si spenga? Quanto dista la fine del labirinto?
    Nel continuo rinnovamento, nell'infinito ringiovanimento del creato, che torna a nuova vita dalla decadenza di cio' che e' stato prima, come un verme che nutrendosi di un cadavere genera la mosca, come un bosco che si nutre di cio' che marcisce sul suo suolo, nulla piu' possiede colori brillanti al mio sguardo. C'e' ruggine su quelle forbici, le lame non sono piu' affilate. La carie corrode il legno vivo dell'abero che sorregge i reami del creato, le sue radici sono affondate nella melma dei millenni. Cio' che abbiamo mandato nel buio ci fa visita nei sogni e l'insonnia ci protegge da noi stessi, uccidendoci piano piano nel farlo. Una assordante musica di chitarra elettrica riempie lo spazio nella mia mente, solo un vortice di emozioni confuse e pensieri frantumati, mentre uno specchio infranto mi rimanda la mia vera immagine disfatta e rimontata, un caos da cui trarre l'ordine, per poi trasformare l'ordine nel caos ancora. Giorno dopo giorno, ognuno uguale ed ognuno diverso, ognuno col suo affanno, il tempo non si affatica ed avra' la sua vittoria su ognuno di noi.
    Io forse mi sono gia' arreso. Arrivare alla fine del sentiero, ecco cosa mi rimane.

    One year is gone, but it's still painful. It's a pain to remind what it was. It sinks me into the sadness. There's no anger to help me, there's nothing to be angry. I can't blame for nothing, to charge someone of faults that are mine. There's just the regret to was no able, or for misfortune which I had. Thoughts which silent come to me in my solitude, consciousness about a fate which didn't beat down like a axe, but that is arrived like a simple scissors click. Enough to cut that faint string which links two people, and lets one of them to fly into the sky like a coloured balloon.
   I pray that balloon will reach better places, while I, my roots into my betrayed convictions, even more tired, ask to myself which are possibilities to reach a earthly happiness now that serenity is gone, now that I have no projects about myself but just for someone else good. Why not wear off? Why not wear off in my darkness purposes which remain to me? Which real hopes have I to complete something before sand runs out, before the last toll faints? How much far is the end of the labyrinth?
    In the continuous renewal, in the endless rejuvenation of creation, which comes back to new life from decay of what has been before, like a warm which turns in fly feeding itself with a corp, like a wood which feed itself with what is rotting on the ground, nothing has bright colours to me. Scissors are rusty, blades are not sharp. Decay eats the living wood of the tree which holds the creation realms, its roots are into millennia sludge. That we send into the gloom visits us in our dreams and insomnia shield us from ourself, killing us slowly. A deafening electric guitar music fields the space in my mind, only a confused feelings vortex and shattered thoughts, while a shattered mirror shows my real figure, unmade and remade, a chaos which gains order from, to change the order in chaos again. Day by day, every one the same and every one different, every one whit its own worry, the time doesn't get tired and will has its victory on every one of us.
    I just surrendered, maybe. To arrive at the end of the path, that is what remains to me.