Girar

El viento entraba por la ventanilla, frío, estéril, seco, duro. Un viento de los que duelen en la piel. Suficiente para secar las lágrimas que amenazaban nublar sus ojos, suficiente para saber dónde estaba la siguiente curva, la que no quería coger, esa curva tras la que aparecía la luz, y, con ella, la consciencia de la llegada a casa. Soñó no girar el volante, seguir recto, para ver al final el rostro de aquel que no podía borrar de su mente. Lo hizo, soñó, no giró. Pero sólo vio la luz, luego todo negro; el ruido primero, el silencio ensordecedor después. Más tarde sintió parpadear las luces, aquellas horribles luces que venían a salvarla de lo que no se quería salvar. Sólo quería dejar de ser dolor, dejar de ser restos de sangre, huesos y carne. No ser, no existir, no dolerse tanto.


The wind came in through the window, cold, sterile, dry, hard. One of these winds which hurt the skin. Enough to dry the tears that threatened to blind her eyes, enough to know where the next bend was, this one that she didn't want to take, this bend beyond the light would appear, and, with it, the awareness of the arrive at home. She dreamed not to turn the wheel, keep straight, to see in the end the face of whom she can't erase in her mind. She did it, she dreamed, she didn't turn. But she just saw the light, then all in black; first the noise, then the deafening silence. Later she felt flicker lights, these horrible lights which came to save her from what she did't want to save. She just wanted to stop to be pain, stop to be remains of blood, bones and flesh. Doesn't be, doesn't exist, doesnt't hurt herself so much.

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