Paris. About fifteen years before Day I
‘Did you feel anytime connected to something? Did you feel someone was inside you?’
‘I really feel lost, Alex. Have you ever felt how the knife was tearing your stomach? Some nights, I can feel my baby crying and I can touch it in my dreams. It smiles for me, it touches my hand, too pressing down. I know it has gone, Alex…. But I have the weird sensation that I can still feel it, that somewhere or sometime, something of it is still alive.’
Sometimes, you can feel your leg even when they had cut it.
‘Something went wrong, Alex. When I was at bed, I tried to keep on silent and to look for it. What do you think? I’m not mad. I am sure that something got wrong and something like a part of it is still inside me, still growing and waiting for being born.’
The union between a mother and her child is always more than worldly.
‘I see your eyes now, Alex. I can see your suspicion. Touch me, Alex, touch me now and feel it, feel the child, feel our child.’
Sometimes, dogs feel strange threats when humans cannot see anything.
And Jack barked again.
‘Had you thought of its name yet? If it had been a girl, I would like to call her Anabelle… I love that poem. Don’t you? It’s ironic now when it’s supposedly dead… but you believe me, don’t you? You have loved me since the first time we met. I have always known it. The same eyes which call me for madness now, they called me once for love.’
Something went wrong with Lorraine’s mind. Someone talked me about her, someone with good manners and a hat and a ticket for a French Baroque conference. Someone good, someone worse than her, someone worse than me, something worse than the flu.
‘If it had been a boy, I would like to call him like his father: Alex.’
Sometimes, one sentence can destroy the reality.
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid. Every day on Yareah magazine.