Читать книгу Coma - Federico Betti, Federico Betti - Страница 19

XVII

I’m driving, or at least I think so. I’ve stopped, in the darkness, my head hurts.

I’m sure I’m not a drive-in. I feel like I’m waiting for someone or something.

I have my hands on the steering wheel and next to me there’s no one.

I’ve stopped, yes, but not because of a red light; there aren’t any traffic lights in front of me, there aren’t anywhere. It’s just me standing in this position, am I waiting?

I don’t know, I don’t get it. One thing only is certain, and it’s the headache that pulses in my temples.

I see a shadow coming close from behind. I realize it because it has a lighter tone of the black around me so I manage to distinguish it, but not to recognize it.

A stranger? Or who else?

I have to ask him who he is, and maybe I could ask him if he has a painkiller to give me.

It comes next to me, so I take the courage to say something.

“Do we know each other? Who are you?”

The ethereal figure is stretched forward, but it doesn’t answer.

“Do you have a painkiller for my migraine?”, I ask without any answer.

A moment.

Now I understand why it doesn’t answer: it doesn’t have a mouth, it can’t talk.

I move my left hand to see if it reacts somehow, but the only thing I get is its departure, I don’t know if it’s my fault or for some other reason.

I have the ambiguous impression that someone is kidding with me, making fun of me.

Why?

It’s a behaviour that I don’t like absolutely, and I keep not understanding.

I don’t understand a lot of things.

I stay here, still, waiting for changes. Waiting for a clarifying light.