Prima Donna

a page of my book, hope you like it 


The woman passed her hand through her gray hair, her fingers sliding down the strands until they reached a knot. Her head bended slightly to the right, under the weight of her thin and wrinkled arm. She fixed her eyes on a spot on the wall, the inert covering of the dark room. Small points of light were dancing there, like the eyes of a wolf – a dark hunter, captured by the moon, an unfaithful lover. And she could see those eyes laughing at her old and crippled body, at her loneliness made even more depressing by the creaking sound of the rocking chair. Sometimes, she put her hand to her throat, stifled and astonished, unable to hear her own voice, begging the persistent fever to grant her just a few more days of life. And her soul descended into a deep pit of echoes, her long dress of thick black material was caught under the legs of the chair, muffling the only sound that kept her in the world of the living, as though that old house, with many sparsely furnished rooms, could be associated with the living. For her it was a mortuary chamber without luxury, jewels or eyes of precious stones reflecting the twilight, idol of the dead. But the wolf that was staring at her, bodiless and featureless, hid, in its entrails of imaginary animal, a young lover. A man who people said had never existed but whose touch she still kept in her bosom. That was when she placed her fingers between her breasts and felt a palpitation, the thin skin covering her bones, exuding bitterness, the taste of pain. And the beads of sweat continued to moisten her body, making it tremble when they were touched by the cold wind blewing in from the garden as though they knew they had not much time left. …


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