Somewhere in Manhattan. End of Day VIII
I imagine a desert land full of buildings, the land where civilizations ago the children played and cried, the zenith of humans and the low point for them, the dreamer. You had many names during your life, like they change the prisoner name for the number of its sins.
Before the vaccine, you imagined as Alex, a young stupid author who felt in love with his own creation, emaciated by his own work. You dreamt the book would be published and we made you to dream what you have forgotten, until the day you became, again, a reader. Fake Game was inside the book as the virus is always inside the vaccine, a virus to fight, a virus to die.
Now days have fallen, now months have gone and, now, characters have died. Can you survive until the last page of the book? We will go before the day you wrote the book, even before the time he was born, even before this book you believed it was printed.
They extracted you the sickness and you are ready to wake up. She will be still there, in the place where your dream burns.
Open your eyes again, Alex, open your eyes.
NY City. About ten years ago
Alex continued with his work while the telephone rang. ‘There must be her. I won’t call.’ And telephone still rang. ‘I would like to meet my mother. I heard about her but… how was she? I imagine her like a woman of the world, an elegant woman.’
‘Don’t you answer?’ My father asked. He didn’t believe me when I told him about my future. ‘You might return to Paris and finish the University. I know you feel confused now, but it’s just the youth. In some years, you will look back and you will regret your decision.’ ‘I won’t, father.’ I smile to him. We both knew the truth: I would never return to Paris because of Lorraine, my muse. ‘Take the time to think on it, my son. We don’t need you now. You can finish your studies and, after that, you can travel or do anything you want. You will have an easy life… Do you want to lose it all just for a girl?’ My father touches my shoulder trying to be a good father. I smile him trying to be a good son. We both know the truth. He leaves me now.
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid http://yareah.com/?cat=293