I hear him, smell him, feel him in the breathing of the wind. He’s up. He walks past me. He, too, can see in the dark. His urine is dripping on the floor again. Every drop explodes into a thousand smelly particles. He’s back. He has something in his hand. It’s heavy, Dark. A cutting board? Olive wood. Its rings are almost black. It has a little hole in the handle. A juice groove. An indentation for salt in the shape of half an egg. I left it on the table. She’s encouraging him from the depths of the room with a toothless chuckle. I can’t open my eyes. He’s going to smash my face in. Split my skull in two. I can’t move. Maybe it’s not a board. He’s waving something. Maybe it’s a knife. Maybe it’s a pillow. Every second now it’s going to stab, wrap itself around me, suffocate me … I can’t open my eyes. I can’t.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe they can stay closed. Maybe. Nothing. Maybe the badante has only let the bora sweep her into a dream because it’s already the morning of the last day.