Shaking, while you was approaching to the book, and you was about to read what i had indicated.
I remained breathless and i was look for to don’t crazy. My heart was beating like a hammer, and it seemed it was wanted coming out from me.
It was everything written on that old pages: the story of our dancing souls. My story, the story of Therese and Katherine (the healers, how they were defined in that rows). The process to the witch in the Piazza and the reason of that process. You was reading all that, aloud, even for me, still stunned, confused, but lightened, because, in someway, we weren’t go crazy.
I got down from the stool i taken your hand, you stopped to read, and you looked at me.
“Are you ok, Daria?”. I didn’t have say nothing, just i looked at you, who, slowly and with all delicateness, have accompanied me to sit in a more comfortable chair. I was in a sort state of confusion, and i had to focalize everything another time.
In a whisper i told :”Please continue…”. Delicately you have caressed my face, and slowly, you got up to return to the big table and restart to read from where i have stopped you.
While your deep voice was wrapping me, i have closed the eyes for a bit, and in those seconds, i heardt the buzzing of the inhabitants in Main Street and the smell of the of wet mud that was impreganting the air of the whole village.
“Listen, here they has described how they were disappeared. There is also a drawing.”
“Let me see” i have said you, and i got up myself from that chair, and i returned in front of that big book, on that big table.
That drawing didn’t have rapresented what which we had lived, and it wasn’t, what was really happened, at all.
But all the rest, it was really happened.
Above all the sentence of the process… the child dead next to the fire.
“Mathias, his name was Mathias.” I have sighed: the chronicles didn’t have mentioned his name, instead has mentioned the only one person who has looked fo to defend me/the witch: you, giving an approximate describtion with a drawing. I smiled you: “He looks like you a bit”.
While, in those pages, there was no still a drawing of the Witch.
There was a drawing of the process with in the middle a skectch of a black shadow of a woman with a black dress and a black cloak.
You have stopped to read and leafing the book, and you have looked at me.
“I will never forget, instead how you was dressed.” and immediately, our minds, were go to the end of that brutal process, when we remained alone in the piazza, lean of the wall of that creacked house, and your hands has lifted the white cotton dress till my hips, and your fingers has penetrated me with vehemence.
We looked at us, without breathing, and for a short moment we had relived those instants of real intimacy, and your hand has touching mine.
We has restart to breath again when slowly you have leafing the last page, and both we remained breathless.
There was a just a drawing of the witch.
It was a perfect drawing of mine.”