RUG

RUG
Monday, 9 a.m.. They did not go to work, as any other day of the week. They didn’t answer the phone. The breakfast was untouched. Croissants butter strawberry jam, banana slices with cream, coffee, cold milk, sugar, and a pack of cigarettes on the table. They said good morning and their words forcefully wove into woven senseless phrases, into furious undiscerning discourses. They slapped each other across the face with perverted insults. Their love was like a piece of cloth displayed on the floor, stomped over and over. Stained by sperm, saliva and blood. Their loveless love was a purple bruise, a red wine stain, a dismembered rose. 10 a.m. The coffee was cold. The pack of cigarettes half empty. They were so young. A young inexperienced couple. They were foul vicious lovers, eating each other space and life. Half past 12. The postman delivered two letters. No one cared, nor the neighbours or the relatives, no one tried to stop them, no one interfered. There was no police officer, no social service official and no priest. 2.45 p.m. The cutlery drawer was wide open. They stabbed each other right in each other chests, as they could no longer take the pain of such malady, such intensity, such fury, such love. At 3 p.m. they lied on the rug together hand on hand, until the light became white and dense and the floor vivid red. The night came down and darkness took them away. No one heard anything, was repeatedly said. 8.00 a.m. Tuesday. The same postman saw the entrance blood flooded. The newspaper wrote a few lines about a found-dead, race-mixed couple that committed suicide and for sure was involved in some fundamentalist religious practice. The case was closed. For a week there were cheap flower bunches and lightened small candles, teddy bear postcards with short grieving phrases and meaningful tears, at their door, for the ones that would walk pass. Life continued, in that building, in that street, in that town, likes always. The world never knew about it, or about their love, their Christian names, their hopes or their foolish dreams. They were nothing more than a number in a passport or in a personnel department database. It de no difference.