Demons House and the strugle of a man
It was clear to him, the house belonged to his demons. The time had come to release them, his head was way too small and they were growning. He used to chat with them in a friendly way, discussing the decisions, taking sugestions from them, he thought they were friends.
Little did he know they’ll take over his actionsin a wink. Feeded by the love his wife didn’t need anymore and expanding all over the space he had inside, his demons grew stronger and wilder, until they became a major destructive force, giving him a hard time trying to control them. He tried to convince them, calm them down, oppress them, even banish them but every attempt failed in disastruos way, leaving him with wounds, records at the local police station and even vague memories of nights spent at the hospital.
Days and months went through and his demons occupied every inch of his inside, oppressing every other creature he used to host. His head became darker than ever and the demons wanted to break free, until it became unbeareble.
He took a what he thought was a pen and started writting all over the walls; it was the only way to release his demons, the way they showed to him. Wrote everything he could and left the house, for it belonged to his demons now.
On her confession to the police station, miss Chan, the widow of mister Chan, whos body was found two weeks after he was reported missing under the bridge he used to go fishing when he was young, told the police that her late husband had become very upset lately, started drinking, was very nervous and because of that was involved in several fights against strangers, that got him lose his job. She also told the police that, the morning he left she woke to the sound of the door he closed behind him, but when she got on his studio, she saw the wall written all over them. Not written with a pen, but craved with what the police found out to be a small knife, the same knife he would latter cut his veins with, under the bridge that used to be his hiding place.
Readind those walls, the mourning miss Chan found every unspoken word her husband never told, or she never listened at. She could make a novel out of it.
Creating the coincidence
It is a strange thing called coincidence; Some say there’s not such thing and some swear it’s the only truth, yet it is so strange.
There were a young man and a young woman on the library, searching the shelves for some interesting book. Tina named them Adam and Eve, in her mind of course, and so are we, as they were the first customers that morning.
The story goes like this: Adam was searching for some book to read on the train on his way home, Eva looking for a book to keep her home on the weekend. They went to the fiction section and their hands touched reaching for the same book. Adam took it and handed it to Eve, telling her it is a great book. Eva asked if he has read it (obviosly he did, but she wanted to start a conversation). Adam told her he loved every word of it, Eve asked him what was the plot but he refused to answer, not to ruin it for her. She smiled and invited him for breakfast, to talk about the other books he knew.
Ten minutes later the library was again empty, but this is where our story begins.
Tina sat on her chair, reached for a pen and started to write the next story, the story of Tristan and Isolde, as she named the next two strangers that would enter the library. They’ll meet on the first corner of the shelve of non-fiction books, Tristan would help Isolde picking up some books she’d accidently’d drop and eventually he’d manage to get her number. Classic.
After Tristan and Isolde left, Tina sat once again in her chair, writting down the next coincidence.
…dhe dërrasat ishin të kalbura. Uji ishte pothuajse ngjitur me urën dhe çdo dërrasë ku vinte këmbën shkërrmoqej. U mbajt fort pas litarit që lidhte dërrasat, ishte zhytur në ujë deri në mjekërr. Litari u këput. Kërkoi të mbahej nëpër copat e drunjve që kishte sjellë lumi, fundoseshin të gjitha njëra pas tjetrës. U zhyt në ujë, po i merrej fryma. Rryma ishte e fortë dhe s’mund të notonte. Uji ishte i turbullt dhe s’mund të shihte. I kaloi e gjithë jeta para syve dhe… U kujtua që ishte në ëndërr. Desh të zgjihej por s’mund të zgjohej. U kujtua që kishte lexuar diku se po të vdisje në ëndërr, zgjoheshe. E la trupin të lirë ta merrte rrjedha.
Gruaja e shikonte të përpëlitej në shtrat e të zgjaste duart. U përpoq ta zgjonte me të shkundura, pastaj me të thirrura. Nuk zgjohej. Vetëm se e mbulonin djersët. Thirri fqinjët, thirri ndihmën mjekësore në telefon. Kur mbërritën mjekët e gjetën të vdekur.
Trupin e dërguan në morg, ku iu bë dhe autopsia. Fytin e kishte të tharë por mushkëritë i kishte plot me ujë.
Kishte vdekur nga mbytja.
Filamenti i hollë i llampës elektrike po dridhet, sikur s’arrin të vendosë në duhet të ndriçojë apo të këputet. Është e vetmja gjë që ma ndriçon dhomën dhe drita tani ulet e tani ngrihet prapë. Rrugës kur po kthehesha më shkoi në mendje të blija një llampë tjetër, se kjo ka ca kohë dhe sikur i kishte dhënë ca shenja, por s’e bleva, m’u duk e panevojshme. Madje pashë edhe ca abazhurë të bukur, por s’i mora, luks i panevojshëm. Kam shpenzime të tjera. S’e di pse po më kujtohet nëna, kur më thoshte të mbaja gjithmonë ndonjë qiri, se s’i dihet. “S’e di pse…”! Në fakt e di, ngaqë llampa po fiket e një qiri do më bënte punë. Sidomos sonte, që do të rri edhe pak zgjuar. Nesër është dita e madhe! Nesër vendoset e gjitha. Dhe vendimin më të rëndësishëm do t’a marr vetë, kjo është ç’është!
Ç’mu gjet kjo llampë sonte! Kam gjithë këto për të lexuar, më duhet t’i mbaj mend. S’mund të paraqitem kështu nesër. Gjithë javës s’dija çfarë të lexoja, sonte që e di s’ka dritë. U bë dhe vapë. Sa dhomë e vogël po më duket kjo, sidomos kur drita ulet. Më duket sikur muret afrohen.
Të lutem, llampë, duro! Kemi kaq kohë që jetojmë bashkë, duro edhe sonte! Të premtoj se, po durove do të të vendos në një vazo porcelani dhe do të të mbaj si gjënë më të shtrenjtë. Se nesër unë duh…