The mute doorbell and the blind man (parte I)

Inicio aqui uma pequena história em 3 fascículos. Em inglês. Espero que gostem! (uma parte por dia) [nota: pode haver alguns erros no inglês, não estive a rever o texto]


I.
Once upon a time there was a doorbell. That wouldn’t be a pretty good start for a story, however this was not an ordinary doorbell. You see, she was mute. Anyone who by fate or knowledge went to the number 4, Lucky Street, and touched with their finger the white plastic would be startled for the nothingness of sound. Broken, they would say. But she knew better, she knew that she was born mute and would be mute her entire life. What the passersby didn’t know was that the house was lost in a swirl of in between lives, haunted by the future past and the past, period. That all the tenants of that place died a long time ago. On the outside, the house seemed perfectly fit. The bushes were trimmed, the lawn cut short. The paint on the walls shinny and immaculate. Even those who eventually had a glimpse of the time frozen would look at the attic window and that light, everlasting, almost divine, would change their minds making them go away to their homes or tombs… or the nearby pub. She was lucky, she thought. She had a meaning of life. She was there, by the iron gate, like a sentinel of the time past, guarding the most extraordinary of all treasures and wonders of the universe. She was the queen, the house her mighty kingdom. Deep down, she knew it was a waste of time. The house, and she, were doomed. She remembers that day like if it was yesterday. It was raining and her insides were rumbling. By the corner a car appeared, black, austere, almost if it was a widower of all his destroyed brothers and sisters. In that instant, however, she was not paying attention. She was totally focused on the small ladybird that was struggling and whirling on the floor, wet and desperate. She wanted to help her, to stop the rain from falling down, but she knew she was already dead when she saw her for the first time. The rear door of the car opened and a strong man appeared. Curious figure, she thought. Standing there with his three-piece black suit and bowler hat, he seemed from another time. Not even bothering to shield his head from the pouring rain, he stepped forward and the car sped away. In his face she could grasp a glimpse of fatigue and mourning. It was then when she saw it. On top of a shabby nose stood a pair of dark teashades. Odd, she thought. It was raining but the sun was smiling and the light was plenty. He seemed not to be looking at the house but inhaling it, absorbing its scents: the rain, the fresh lawn, the wood, the rusty iron. He was crying. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to ring, she wanted to shout out loud, to tell him she was there for him, that he was not alone. But he felt alone, he was alone. And he just stayed there, now soaked to the bone, shivering, inert. It was his house, it seemed. (...)

[to be continued...]