The chair is screaming, and the keyboard tampering like a galloping horse. A little scratch in my right hand signals that this is the painful world, the one you visit from time to time; the one you inhabit with your open eyes; the one with noisy motorbikes, walling sirens, and barking dogs. I’ve just walked to my sister’s room and opened the door and she was studying, just that, reading silently and I doubt she even noticed my opening the door. Now I’m back, and I’ve found that by some trick of the mind, what I’ve just done is already written. As if some wondrous typewriter is keeping track of my actions. But then, how it is possible that I see my hands tap-dancing on the white surface of symbolic floor? My guess is that they are not my hands, but I can feel how my bones, muscles, sinews, ligaments, blood vessels and I-don’t-know-what-else are conspiring against my instincts and are acting on their own accord. Now I close my eyes, blink, open again, close, grub them with a finger that at the same time is still writing and dancing on the letter “Y”, or is it “y”? When I open my eyes again, everything is written. So I stand up and go to drink some water. The refreshing stream of H2O is hydrating my whole soul, while the pale polar light comes out of the fridge freezing my eyes. I slowly close the door, and now I realize what’s really happening. I have no hands! Or do I? I cannot understand, I rush back to the computer and the marathon takes hours, and the nearer I come, the louder and more terrifying the galloping becomes. I sit down my no-handed-body in the chair that by now is already whimpering and likely to cry and drown my feet in a deep sea of sorrow. My arms slowly attach to those writing hands, spotless, no mark in them, and continue writing. Suddenly, I perceive that the air is changing, the light becomes paler and paler until it faints. With no light, my eyes become sour to the wave emanating from the screen so I stand up again and look for a candle. How hard can it be to find a candle? I move to the chess of drawers and attempt to undertake the adventure of my life. My left hand approaches the knob (the right one is still tap-dancing on the board) and pulls the drawer out. The jaw of the monster is open and I submerge into it. But here there is nothing of use to produce light, just a few spoons, forks, and some knives so I jump back out, and the second drawer draws out, into which I dive. The landing is soft, just a noiseless thumb under my feet, I look around finding myself in a forest made of soft rags. I walk, stroll, run, stumble, and mumble. My blood freezes, some kind of creature is looming, I’m being chased down/ what kind of creature makes such noises, like paper rubbing against paper, like a pen scratching a field of snow, like, like, like, like ///// the beast dies away as my sister approaches to the fridge and eats strawberries and blueberries, and blackberries, and gooseberries, and raspberries, and bilberries, and tayberries, and ////////// the polar winds die out as my sister full of berries goes back merry to her room. My adventure continues – tea-bags the size of a dictionary, sugar grains as big as rocks, and rags as big as rats. Then, the scent of scented paraffin calls my attention and makes my run to the darkest part of the forest where I can finally meet my slender salvation. I take it form the wick and jump out of the monster’s mouth and walk towards the still typing right hand. I place the candle in the candlestick (was it here before, or just appeared out of the blue?) and light it ///// no sooner it is lighted, the screen dies out, and the faint flame of the candle is so dim that my eyes cannot perceive a thing. Nonetheless, the tapping fingers with tired sinews go on dancing. Then, all of a sudden, the sound slowly changes from a very plastic knock to a nice mechanical hitting that speaks to me in a rather archaic accent of Swedish, or German, or Scandinavian, or Turkish, or Arab, or Celt, or Kilomentliementoigualnerreyot, with slow but musical chak – chak – chak – chak – chak – chak – chak – chak – chak, and once out of breath, a strong but gentle chime warns me that I have to make it go back and down. She introduces herself, and tells me her name is Miss Lucy, that she’s been (chime) waiting for my for so long, longing my robust fingers to tap in her types, (chime) and my grace to be reflected in a slow motion of my right hand, allowing (chime) her little and fragile lungs to refill with new oxygen and ink. She also tells (chime) me that her previous owner was an a small and frail old lady that had (chime) suffered for love, because she had been let down by a heartless rascal who (chime) thought it opportune to …………………., and let her alone with a little child. (chime) her letters were the sadder thing Lucy had ever read or written and hopes she (chime) never again has to type such things. She tells my that all the letters finished in (chime) the same loving way “I hope it’s a dream, and when I woke up I can find you (chime) by me, in the bed. Yours, Betty.” I promise her that my writing won’t take such turns, and that my fingers will tap everyday on her beautiful black types to make her revive from the darkness she had been through. Now, my fingers start to move slowly as if they were extremely exhausted of such a tiring task. The sounds of Miss Lucy start to fade in the fog that revolves around me, and I hear her calling me “Hey, lover, (chime) don’t let me here alone, I will miss you, because I know that your beautiful ten (chime) dancers won’t be back soon. I hope it’s not a dream, and when you woke up I (chime) can find you by me, in your desk. Yours, Lucy.” At that precise instant I look down to my hands and I cannot see the little scar on my right hand and I realize that it is not the same world I was in as when I started to ////////////////// I open my eyes, they hurt by the light emanating from the screen, and my right-hand-with-scar is now writing in a white keyboard and not in Lucy’s black one.
“I hope it was a dream, and when I go back to my dreams I can find you singing in your strange language under my fingers. Yours, John.”
