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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 60 | volume XI | May-June, 2008



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 60May-June, 2008
Prose

The Son

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p. 1
Stevo Simski

He was thirty when his father was dying in the next room. It was three am. He wanted to be gone until the morning. He painfully waited for his look to pierce through the window that shortened the outside darkness. Looking tense, he barely saw some points in his face, that split in the double window glass. He chain smoked sitting on the bed.
    He was suffocated by the image of his mother opening the door and calling him standing on the threshold, without words. His heart beats were going out through his fingers. His eyes were wet from the darkened nature of what was to happen. His look could not flow out of the door and it started peeling off the rough layers of paint and getting through them. It stopped before the size of the hinges. A foot under the top, in the middle the rough damage on the board scratched his eyes. He looked down the crooked board of the frame wand went down on the darkened key that attracted him with its presence and needlessness. He had no strength to think. The oily edge of the door, under the spent door knob amazed him and darkened his look. He always mechanically pressed it to close it.
    … Looking at the door he wished it would never open again. That it doesn’t exist. That’s it’s built in… He was ready to get up and lock it. But then it moved, in a straight line, towards the room, pressing the space with all the air in it. Giving birth to a pain that would not allow him to scream. Planting a memory and weight that most of the people never get rid of, bringing unbased guilt: “Was it supposed to happen now?”. A duration that is stressed until the last heartbeat.
    His mother stood on the threshold. But he didn’t recognize her. He didn’t know that she could get old so much in several hours. To fade away. To get gray. But he knew it was her because nobody else had the right, nobody else could open the door.
    “Your father is asking for you.” He read on her lips.
    Standing up from the bed he lost several kilos. His head pulled him up, and still he was sitting. He was split. He could not step. Walk. Breathe. He passed the threshold long as if the draught returned him in some weightlessness… Then


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