"This morning Vincent gave me a sword. He would not say where he had found. He made a few unintelligible words carelessly, and ignored my thanks. All I have managed to understand is that he took pains.
But according to Xavier, I must continue to train a few times with a broomstick to learn attacks and parries. Then I go to the iron bar to familiarize myself with the weight of my future weapon. Only then I can take the sword and tame its edge. Xavier's hard to relax.
I did not hurt the mouth at the dinner that followed. I did not take my eyes off of this medieval weapon leaning against a wall the show. She looked old, judging by the rust that the gash in places, and the blade seemed a little twisted. More than a sword stunt in Puy-du-Fou than a legendary knight. But still enough to cut some slices in a man.
Xavier has slipped into the conversation that the drive was not a reason to stop writing. I sent shit yet knowing he was right. You start to know as I am: When I write anything for a long time I begin to take seriously and think strangely.
Once my friends were in bed, I grabbed the sword and went down the street hot. I think the summer is that we are suffocating. I said the same thing last year, but I had no idea what real heat.
I went to this bar where I met Irving revolutionary Rutherford for the first time. The sword was less cumbersome to wear than what I had imagined. When they saw me arrive with my approach and my quiet swords, guards posted at the entrance were more or less frantic. They supported their machine guns and ordered me to identify myself and the reason for my visit.
-I just see Irving Rutherford, "I said. I'm the writer warrior.
I stood in the fathoms, proud and stupid, and I yelled some nonsense for you to hear me inside the building. I waited until the dragon comes out of the tavern. And believe me I've waited a long time. One of the soldiers returned junk in the bar to seek reinforcements and explanations, and left me alone with his friend who treated me with a grin reserved for fools we crossed the subway. What was perhaps will know ...
is Irving Rutherford who was released from the antrum of the revolutionaries. I immediately read on his face that he thought I was dead for good since we last met. I'll tell you again how I had left it there this time.
I raised an eyebrow as if to mean "Oh yeah buddy," and I waved my sword as a gift that I brought him. I'll spare you the conversation we had, full of manly provocations and phrases with double meanings. Simply, we discoursed on metaphysics, and he swore that this time he did by miss me. And soon we were running out of words, and no longer had any choice but to warn us.
He pulled out a gun, and I thought that for once he lacked stature, or that in any case for once I was older than him. That was my only win of the day. What can I say? The battle was shorter than expected, less epic. I think some of my shots were right on target, and was able to snatch a little blood. But it was hard to judge the situation with a bullet in the chest.
I also lost a lot of blood, and finally we stopped fighting, promising us that it was only a postponement. Separate Ways returned heal its wounds. I chose to come to you, in the vague hope that you'd be there maybe.
When you come back we'll talk about all this in more detail, because I realize I am not very clear on certain passages, but I have trouble concentrating. You should go quickly. I hope you are well.
Me, I'm fine but I miss you. "
A drop of blood falls over my signature as I wipe the back of my pants. I say it nonetheless provides an authentic side in my story that is not really. To start I could tell him that I was afraid of never seeing her again.
The timer of the building Martine is ridiculously short. I sometimes wonder if people on upper floors have time to climb the stairs before the light turns off.
Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, I spend my time to press the switch for me not to get sucked into the darkness. It's probably my imagination, but I feel that the intervals between each extinction decrease. Time is accelerating slowly but surely, and the night passes at full speed while I stain the floor with my blood under a flashing light almost.
To the point where I no longer have the strength to press the switch, and as darkness explodes silently. The crackle of the wood and the sound of wind pushing the walls become the only signs that tell me that the world still exists. An inspiration
a bit too strong makes me feel the air hole through me and I somehow compress the palm of my hand. Pain is reassuring in a sense.
Painfully, I rekindled the light to grant me a reprieve. This time everything is different. The minutes were finished rushing, and seem to hang around me like vestments belonging to rites unknown. Feeling my mind waver, I do promise to remain an atheist until the last breath, not to persuade me that the end is the beginning, and all that crap.
The toes, I drag the letter that I wrote under the door Martine. Basically I do not tell him anything. Its bearing seizes me little by little, light capricious became permanent, and I do not tell him anything. This is the first text that I write for ages, and I have not even been inspired.
After an eternity of dying grumbling on my part timer finally extinguished. The darkness is deeper than before, probably because that we are at an advanced hour of the night. I still believe that there is no hidden world beneath the surface of things, and I put all my energy in that certainty. She keeps me from snapping right away, because who knows when it's finished it's really over.
A sigh as I pushed passed a stream of air through the new vent hole between my ribs, and pain relief woke up a bit. I grope the wall until the switch and the light on again. Roger stands in front of me, sitting on a stair, and affects an air concerned. You change
-not really blame myself there.
-Si, "I said in a tired breath. Gently.
The sound of my own voice sounds strange to me after this long period of silence. My eyes are still filled with darkness and have trouble getting used to the new light, so that Roger seemed more ghostly than ever. I hesitate a moment to tell him that my friends think it is a manifestation of my imagination, but I thought better and realized that it hurt him for sure.
I ask how is the future, and it stretches its members with false airs of sports, as if that was the question he was waiting for ages. He explains that he is sorry for having dangled the Nobel Prize and the writing career that goes with it, but he sought a solution to change the course of events without any upset.
"It is the law of time travel," he summarizes.
-In the future I became what, right?
-You died of cancer.
-At least it's something that I prevented.
I renounce plug the hole in my chest and dropped my hand, which is full of stinging. I am persuaded that it does not mean that I do not live. When I ask Roger if he came from the future to save me, he has a face, and explains that it's more complicated than that.
-This is Irving Rutherford, he admits. It has always been him. I thought that if you t'accomplissais as a writer it would not make its appearance. And when it appeared, I thought that if I fit in his small group, I could change him before that his personality is well defined. And I think he understands and he has abused. One would think
ready to cry. Despite my insistence, he refuses to reveal to me that Irving going to commit so heinous that warrants time travel. A little tired, I let run and sit on my curiosity. Roger has his reasons and I have mine.
-You really attacked Irving Rutherford sword? wonder there with a smile.
"I have lied in the letter. I told him not a scratch, and it is his henchman who shot me. I fled because I was terrified.
He nods, understanding. He said he will take me home, and that will proof it exists. But the light goes off suddenly, and when I the on again it disappeared.
I should be honest with myself and admit that I am here on this stage to die, thinking that would make your feet Martine. I daydream for hours waiting to be short of blood, hoping to live or die, thinking hard about what could be and people that I could cross.
My eyes close softly, and I do not expect finished. A torpor seized reassuring me without violence, with a frightening sense. Through my eyes closed, I see that the light goes out, again. I still think it's over when it's really finished.
Note: Suspense two balls
Soon: Paxton hell
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