The child with the crooked hands

N. Lygeros

Translation: Paola Vagioni





-I am hurting. Why are you hitting me?
-Don't lie! You cannot hurt, since you are an idiot. She hits him again.
-And yet I hurt.
-I hit you, so that your hands become straight.
-But they are like this since I was born.
-That's why society doesn't want you!
-It doesn't matter...I will keep on writing...
-No, don't write! I will brake your hands! She hits him.
-You are hurting me!
-You will be like everyone else...Nor-mal!
-With my crooked hands I write novels.
-You forgot the novel of your life. She hits him.
-I haven't forgotten anything. I just love people.
-There aren't any people! Are you that stupid?
-Why do you say that?
-The essence is society! We all have to be the same!
-But why?
-How will you become permanent with your crooked hands?
-But I do not want to become permanent... I am a writer.
-The only work that has meaning is permanence.
-But permanence is not work...
-There is no other. The others are the minions of permanence.
-Is this why you are bothered by my crooked hands?
-Yes! She hits him again.
-Ah!
-Do you complain? She hits him. I am doing it for your own good.
-Who wants this good?
-Society! Haven't you understood it yet?
-My hands do not straighten. You will only break them.
-Better broken than crooked!
-What?
-Even normal hands can break. This way nobody will see the difference.
-But the difference will continue to exist.
-It will not appear however.
-It doesn't change anything.
-You are an idiot! She hits him harder.
-You have broken them... I will not write anymore...
-At last!
-I do not hurt anymore.
-Come for a kiss my child.

The child lays dead in his mother's hands.







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