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Fiction or reality?

I rested and woke up,

I looked by my side and there you were.

I stood up, went to the window, sat on the chair,

And I picked up the black book,

That you gave me the night before.

And carefully I looked at you,

Afraid you’d wake up and see me,

Looking at the black book,

That was only meant to be look at

When you were gone,

Up in space,

A aware of thy body.

I looked at your black book,

And I cried.

Looking at the drawings of terrors,

Of your trauma, sadness, anger,

Your black book.

As you powdered your nose,

You came to me and said:

“Once I’m gone, I want you to read it. You can only read it whilst I’m not here. Close it when I’m back.”

I almost laughed and said okay, thinking I’d be looking at drawings or stupid lyrics.

When I opened it, a world I’d never seen unfolded. The black book was full of black pages and pages of only some lines and numbers. The number 11 was everywhere. In the black book, in the water bottle, he would draw it everywhere he could.

I cried so much that night. How I cried, turning the pages of that black book, feeling his pain, taking it as if it was mine. when he returned, he wanted to go again and I stood up and said I had to leave, that I had felt since the beginning something terrible was going to happen.

So he begged me to stay. One of the very few times he ever begged for everything.


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