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Death in Venice (a can of worms story)

“silvia…” she hears again, “silvia…” she knows she shouldnt do this, she knows that. that is opening a can of worms. and despite, she rolls up her sleeves and sticks her hand on the water and palps the floor of the ocean and finds it.

she learnt in the big country that “l love you” and “l hate it” were two things people are not very discriminating about. they use it nonsensly. therfore, whenever she uses those words, she measures the situation and procures.

she hates this.

a can of worms. she is gonna open a can of worms and she hates it. an instant of doubt sinks in as fast as it disappears. 20 something years after all happened and there she is, again. “silvia…” she hears. and she doesnt want to hear it, but she can´t resist the temptation. she never did before, actually. she contemplates the can and salivates as much for emotions as for pain. she examines it… and remembers…

she hates to remember.

she remembers that she was pretty new at it, she still had that new-car smell on her skin. he initiated her on all the maters of the heart and the lust. he was Aschenbach in the lido island and she was the little boy he obsessed with while Mahler blasted in the air. he told her about other worlds, real and non real ones, through his books, his stories. he sweep her feet away and made her discover that part of herself that would determine her reality  forever.

but reality was poluted. and she didnt know. but he did. he was contaminated. he did know… something comes with the ignorance of a young age; but something comes with the evil of mature age too… he did know…

she stares at the can, imagines the worms inside, allowing them to make her feel. pain sinks in..t he feelings, the thoughts, the words, the touch of his fingers on her skin, the warmth of his lips on her tights, the bites on the back of her neck… but also the dissapontment, the excrutiating pain, the maddnes, the lies…

“silvia…” she hears…

as she stands up, she stares at the can and she wonders… what would it happen? what would happen if right now, a quater of a life-time after that happened, he came into her life, he just showed up again, in another form of live, and he lift his hand, surround her with his blue eyes and he said… “come”

“silvia…” she hears…

would she drop her bags, sink her shoulders, reach to him, hold his hand and jump off the ground one more time?…would she allow herself to be feel what he (and only him) made her feel? again? …would she?

“silvia…” she hears…

or.. would she look at him, take a deep breath, turn her back away and throw the can in the ocean as far away as it was nearly impossible to reach again?


she will allways know where the can is, anyway…

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