Dove eravamo rimasti?
“Should we go in?” Catherine asks.
“I guess” I whisper, hoping that the fog would dissipate my words before they reach anyone. “Is it is even opened?” I ask, clinching my fists inside my pockets. Because it is cold. And because I don’t want to visit the cemetery in front of us. Maybe because it is deserted. Maybe because I have attended one too many funerals recently.
But I am not afraid of cemeteries either. I generally I like them: the black and white pictures on the graves; and the ones in color, the younger ones. Easier to related to, my generation. To imagine what their lives would have been like. The line between death and life is thinner than most people make it out to be.
And today, it is just a door.
“I guess it is open!” Dora says and I can hear from her voice that she is getting sick. Because that’s what a cold and dump day does to you. It makes you sick.
We are in a small village with a grandiose past and a bleak future. Well, I guess it had a grandiose past because of the tall medieval walls and the big fucking castle dominating the small hill around which the village was built. But it is so foggy that the big grandiose past and its castle are barely visible.
Do they enter the cemetery
- They all enter (0%)0
- One does but the others go (33%)33
- No (67%)67