Enough

Este texto surgiu numa noite em claro durante a qual ouvia incessantemente um cd de uma banda de Seattle e durante uma musica pensei "e se ela se fartasse da situação?"...



She was lying in the bed.
As the door started to open she pushed herself under the covers.
"He is coming", she thought, as she pressed harder beneath the soft silken sheets.
The soft light from the corridor came through the door revealing a slender, but still imposing figure at the doorway.
His eyes are bright as he looks around the room.
Searching.
Her slight figure is almost unnoticeable under the multiple layers of sheets and covers in the bed. After all it is still winter.
He enters the room and closes the door softly behind him.
He lit a small lamp in the dressing table.
The light is too bright for a moment. Her eyes were already used to the darkness.
As the man starts to get undressed she sees the marks on his back. Marks from fighting.
He had battled in many of their country wars but those marks were mainly from fighting for fun.
How many men those hands hadn't hurt. Even kill.
She had felt those same hands more than once.
He finishes himself up. And makes his way to the bed.
He stops, noticing her. He makes his way to her side of the bed.
She shivers.
He kisses her on the head, not realizing she's awake, and he lays himself on the bed by her side.
They remain there, still, for several minutes.
His hand starts moving.
So does hers.
The last thing he sees is the reflection of the lamp on the dressing table in the small dagger on her hand.
"Not anymore", she cries to herself.
The dagger falls.
Again…
And again…
And again…