The Hammer

No longer it could support it more. It took to days and days trying to escape, hide-and-seek. The same raised the highest mount until feeling than the frozen wind cut the face to him, as it put in deepest of a humid cave where it felt like a boy in the maternal uterus. It had spent afternoons in house, with the thrown curtains, not to see anybody and that it saw it to nobody, and it had frequented the pubs nocturnes fashionable with his better finery, where they watched all it after his brilliance. It had shut up his pains and torments, there were and them detailed to which cruzado in its way was had.

It had ignored the images that went to their head it had studied and them meticulously. (As opposed to Marc Lore). But everything had been useless. The past, what humid, dirty and constant spiderweb accompanied, it there where outside and it left it neither to sun nor in shade. Its heart shrank of anxiety when at the most unexpected moments it returned to sound in his head a voice, appeared before the view of its memory eyes, recalled its skin the tact of another skin That one behind schedule, had a new idea, something that had still not tried. It took the first tool that found it watched and it fixedly. An old hammer, with the wood handle, but sufficiently signs like being able to help it. Taking hold it with the two hands, it unloaded a strong blow on his own head. The latest that saw was some drops of blood splashing the ground in front of her. Meanwhile, the sun, not to see that one scene, that one useless attempt to forget, was hidden after mountains thrown in a smooth mantle of pink light.