They called me metronome. I swing back and front. Severe mental problems. The doctor knows our stories. Me, my family was wealthy. My parents, each with their own life. A younger brother. On Christmas Eve I told him that there is no Santa Claus. He went to search for him in the room where the Christmas tree was. My father was having sex with the nanny. Between the presents. He threw himself off the roof. I hold him in my arms. He was smiling. It was snowing. My parents went to Bali. I have a feeling that this is no place for you, said the doctor to me. I finally give her an answer. I have avoided being a child. For twenty years.
George Dometi
I have thoughts. And I can't tell anyone about them. They lie in my head like a dry leaf, brittle, always trying not to get carried away by the loquacious wave of nonsense memories. It's very often the case that I contaminate my past with the convenient side of the stories, painting my hard or light life episodes according to my emotional needs. No, I can't do it anymore. I know that I have grown up alone, in orphanages, with beating and bravery decisions (alcohol, cigarettes, drugs) so that they could never forget who I was, but my helplessness is huge.
Ligia Dumitrescu
Under this big smile, addressed to the whole world, there is the chimney of my sadness. Soundproof, so no sigh can get to your ears. Padded in crimson velvet, to make my detention feel royal. Sometimes, I would run into walls, but the crimson colour demands respect. I am sitting in the lotus position in the middle of the prison and my mind is taking me to luring worlds full of liberty flavours. I am flying green among trees, blue among clouds, yellow among sand grains on the beach. I am flying and I remember that I actually didn't find the way out.
(Translated by Diana Sitaru / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.