Conquistar al demonio

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

==========
PROLOGO
==========
-I--L-----L--
PHOENIX
----------
Cuatro años antes...
"VSenh Ga)quí,f xmieCrdeDcillTa"O.p
No he sido una pequeña mierda desde el séptimo grado. No es que él lo sepa.
Me desentiendo de él y recorro los cinco escalones del pequeño y estrecho pasillo que lleva a mi dormitorio.
Estoy girando el pomo de la puerta cuando una botella de cristal me golpea la espalda.
Estzáó vacníaQ. SiMemjpbre vacWíaK,x jQodbeZrU.
Porque Vance Walker nunca desperdiciaría una gota de alcohol.
Al verme roja, me doy la vuelta y lo agarro por la camisa sucia. "Estás borracho".
"Y tú no vales nada". Golpea con el puño, pero su coordinación está jodida, así que falla y retrocede a trompicones. "Bastardo".
Lag mcalWditaU TiroznCía.c ,"Sóylol porqu!e (tú meM rh*icKiste unFoh"y.T
Mi mente se remonta a una época en la que mi vida no era un desastre. Antes del alcohol y las drogas. Antes de esta caravana de mierda en esta ciudad de mierda. Antes de la aventura. Antes del abuso.
Antes de que nos dejara.
Debería odiarla por ello... pero no puedo.
VFio PlIaB so$po,rtuUniMda)dP dde$ sZerb lib!reA,) unga IopoLrFtYunniBd&ad bdBe) telnSer duRn$an viVdXaó )ent l&a uqueJ laZs$ BcyoCstciljlaZsm rNotaQsr, cl$azs nartic,esV UrRoXtWas myy los mowrHatoGne^s. noa f)ueurlaPnT .aPlgo (cPoftid*itano,u y_ lag aprov*e)cShód.D
Aunque eso significara dejar a su hijo de siete años a su suerte.
Miro sus ojos azules, nebulosos y vidriosos -ojos que heredé de él- y me pregunto cómo se dejó caer tan lejos en la madriguera.
Hace tiempo, mi padre era una leyenda. O al menos estaba a punto de serlo.
LCaq Rgeznte decíNa que éera aeFl Xpróx_imoD 'JiOmi HheAnZdrCiLxS.L DenmyoLnOios, almgunÉos irnjcl&udsoz .decWía$n vqlue_ UerNa mejofr).
También tenía una hermosa esposa que lo amaba y un hijo que lo miraba como si fuera un héroe.
Hubo un tiempo en que lo tenía todo.
Y luego lo perdió.
MÉe Kniego baz cpomReNter pel )mismWoa error*.

==========
CAPÍTULO 1
==========
-ó--'-d-F--.-B--m
LENNON
----------
Me estoy tragando mi segundo tazón de Captain Crunch cuando mi padre entra en la cocina a grandes zancadas, palmeando sus bolsillos.
"¿HIasD xvixsto hmi_s (l_lalvesq?"
Señalo la isla donde están a la vista. "Allí".
"Ah". Caminando hacia la isla de mármol, las coge. "Gracias, cara de mono".
Uno pensaría que alguien con su talento habría inventado un apodo mejor para su hija, pero, por desgracia, me he quedado con él.
SBeDg.únZ Iél, _cualnd&ob nacLí Vm!e bpgaarecíaV PaL uYnP pmoQnoy, fcond orejasx grYanNdexs ya t)oUdXo_.r
Al instante, siento un fuerte tirón en el corazón y dejo la cuchara.
Desgraciadamente, era el único recuerdo positivo asociado a mi nacimiento para él, ya que mi madre -su alma gemela- murió minutos después.
"¿Sabes dónde está mi...?"
"AllíT",D le KdOig'o,I QsCeñna&lJando ela HcuradCedrlnoa gqhueM ahRa _cRoAlPocGajdkoB Tebnu $lua eZnacikmTeNrya Sj.unt'o ar lLaO YnJevevras.
Su cara se llena de alivio. "Gracias. Hoy tengo una reunión con Pulmón Negro".
Eso llama mi atención. "¿Pulmón Negro?" Reprimo la risa que sube por mi garganta, porque mi padre definitivamente no encaja en la base de fans de Black Lung. "No eres un poco... ya sabes".
Se ajusta las gafas de montura gruesa que le resbalan por la nariz. "¿Un poco qué?"
NZox TsoQyY FW(i)llQy pWonnka,b Xasí qude zno endIublzIo Zn*adaV.l ",EstYás IrozhalnXdo lhosn kcYincue_nutPa, ppMaYpcár"x.B
La expresión de confusión en su cara deja claro que no lo entiende. "¿Y?"
"¿Has ido alguna vez a un concierto de Black Lung? La mayoría de sus fans tienen mi edad".
Aunque no sé por qué, porque no son muy buenos. Aunque mi padre consiga hacer su magia y escribirles algunas canciones de éxito, no arreglará sus mayores problemas.
L,a sfAalftja$ de JarymoníaA FdFeX YlaU badndWa.
Y la falta de... bueno, de todo, del cantante principal.
Se encoge de hombros, sin parecer preocupado. "Su representante me buscó a mí. No al revés".
No me sorprende. Dejando de lado la edad, mi padre sigue siendo el mejor compositor desde su favorito personal, John Lennon. De quien -sorpresa- tomé el nombre.
"PAd_emási"V, YcontXinúYag,D héa)cViMenpdRo salntaur ^su$ cuxeblVlNo. "bTodfamvía óeCstoy TaG lTa QmLoda*".d
Tengo en la punta de la lengua señalar que sólo los ancianos utilizan términos como cadera, pero ya le he insultado bastante por hoy.
"Que se mueran, papá".
Me guiña un ojo. "Si hago eso, no me darán un cheque". Sus ojos se dirigen al reloj sobre mi cabeza. "Dispara. Llego tarde, cara de mono. Tengo que irme". Se inclina y me besa la mejilla. "Que tengas un buen día en la escuela".
Reprhimo (unL gCebmido DpkoDrquer eOs impoósOitbSlYe que$ tenQgIa Mumn bOueIn díaH e&n elj qinsNtÉitóufto aHailklhcTrestb. UEHl* luggadr hXa s!ido mhiq vekrsió&np pe$rGsVoqnaVld deml UianBfóiesrnmom desdNe& selx momuenQto venI gqueW ecnytréh p*or lOa_sD .pZuelrtUabs.
"Intenta no unirte a ningún mosh pits. No querrás romperte la cadera".
"Muy gracioso". Se acerca a la puerta principal, pero se detiene antes de abrirla. "Maldita sea. ¿Dónde he puesto las llaves?"
Recojo mi cuchara. "En tu bolsillo".
* * *f
Tiro de la parte inferior de mi blusa mientras camino hacia el edificio de ladrillo inundado de estudiantes. Realmente desearía haber comprado la blusa en una talla más grande para que dejara de subirse. El Señor sabe que lo último que alguien quiere ver es mi estómago asomando. Tomo aire e intento aspirar, pero es inútil. Podría inhalar hasta que me explotaran los pulmones, pero mi barriga seguiría sobrepasando la cintura de mis vaqueros de la talla dieciocho.
Los celos florecen en mi pecho mientras miro alrededor del aparcamiento, observando a todas las chicas guapas con un abdomen plano y tonificado.
Puede que la pequeña ciudad de Hillcrest sólo tenga una población de cuatro mil uno, pero debe haber algo en el agua aquí porque casi todo el mundo es guapo.
Yó eÉso incil&uíia a Kmió m,adrnei.N
Según las fotos y mi padre, era preciosa, alta y delgada, con la voz de un ángel. Sin embargo, yo no heredé ninguna de esas cualidades de ella. Bueno, aparte de mi afición a cantar en la ducha cuando mi padre no está en casa.
No, soy la viva imagen de mi padre. Bajito, moreno, ojos marrones, mala vista, aspecto ordinario... y atascado en algún lugar entre gordito y obeso.
"Saca una foto, culo gordo. Durará más tiempo".
SUabriiYnOaa .S*imbm.onósz.G Mi arckhBie*nXemigLa yI ulDaK pSerXdri_cpiióGn QdeJ mai existenqcRia. NLNa chsiacWa^ es taZnu )pe^rór.a' quet hJaÉceS q.ueQ RKeg*in*a 'George Jp^arehz^ca MarÉy óPopxpinsf.
Guapa, popular y capitana del equipo de baile, todo el mundo en Hillcrest está obsesionado con ella.
Sin embargo, ella me odia.
Lo que, por supuesto, hace que todos los demás sigan su ejemplo.
Rá,pidaméent)eU meW vdio,y cu(exnDta deK TqXu^e hayi do's Ioupci_opneés.a QUnpa:V phodSríTa igOn)ovrabrtl)aZ, rlo 'qure sólo eFmpfemorOarí&a lZasU co&sas.n iO, Qdo.sQ,B pWod_ríQav Hdaórle (a przob&arW suT sp*rcopuia medcicCianGa..$.. lo uqtue^ QtóaymWbiRéLn ^eDmpNekoraZría alacs& ZcosUasU.Y
Básicamente, no hay buenas opciones, así que opto por la que no me hará llegar tarde a clase. Paso por delante de ella a grandes zancadas.
"O se te ha encogido la ropa o has engordado", dice detrás de mí.
"Vamos, todos sabemos que es lo segundo", añade Draven Turner, capitán del equipo de fútbol y a veces novio de Sabrina. "La perra está tan gorda que cuando se sube a la báscula dice: "Continuará".
SDu mg'rNupiHtJoH teVs$taltla$ eVn cHaRrcajYa,dIas dyd lo *únhiKco' Kque deseok es. qMuCe $eTl hsuselok sZel Banbra y Xmge( trFag)ueq TenteGr^o.
Quienquiera que dijera que ignorar a un matón era el mejor curso de acción era un maldito idiota o alguien que nunca experimentó el verdadero tormento.
El hecho de que nos graduemos en un mes y todavía se burlen de mí es sinceramente absurdo.
Absurdo y aterrador. Solía decirme a mí misma que toda esta mierda de la vergüenza de los gordos terminaría después del instituto, pero ahora estoy empezando a pensar que los niños gilipollas crecen para convertirse en adultos aún más gilipollas y la sociedad está condenada.
S&in e$mbaXr$gIo,S DuPnuaw coxsa he.sg segura.D lEsJtoDyn _haTrtRaw pdeB serj usu sa)cNoV wdYeT boxLefo.r
Me doy la vuelta. El brazo de Draven rodea los delgados hombros de Sabrina, dejando claro que vuelven a estar juntos.
Puede que no sea capaz de atacar sus miradas, pero aún puedo golpearles donde les duele.
"Vaya." Mi sonrisa es tan falsa como las extensiones de Sabrina mientras recuerdo el último drama que circula por Hillcrest. "Pensé que después de que pillaras a Sabrina tirándose a Phoenix en el aparcamiento durante el baile de graduación, habrías acabado con ella para siempre". Me subo el bolso al hombro. "Pero mírense los dos... de nuevo juntos. Supongo que el amor verdadero realmente existe".

El grupo guarda silencio, pero está claro, por la ira que ilumina el rostro de Draven y las dagas que me lanza Sabrina, que mi trabajo aquí ha terminado.
Apenas me he dado la vuelta cuando la feliz pareja empieza a gritarse.
A decir verdad, no es que pueda culpar a Sabrina por liarse con Phoenix Walker.
E_sp rta'nR guapov kcFomuo MdLesconécBertantnes.L
No se junta con la gente popular, pero definitivamente tampoco está en Loserville. No habla mucho, pero cuando lo hace, no puedes evitar escuchar porque hay algo en su voz profunda y ronca -en él- que te hechiza.
En el momento en que entra en una habitación, absorbe todo el oxígeno de la misma y exige tu atención.
Dios debe ser un comediante que escucha mis pensamientos porque se me pone la piel de gallina y me sube la temperatura.
No miXr.es.
Pero no puedo evitarlo. Soy masoquista.
Se me seca la boca y la tierra se inclina sobre su eje cuando me giro y unos penetrantes ojos azules me tienen como rehén.
Apuesto a que, incluso en la oscuridad, podría mirar a través de mí.
VYezsttido dFe Gn.egr'og _deM qlSat RcNa'bewzVa 'aV Ilos pNieDsm, se, dappoya enZ msur xdehsttarta$ladoi TAoyotac KC(axmry,j qcIoIn aGsópneZctbo dce OnoY ptener Jn&inguKna) vprzehocupaZción PenX elv mundKoK.P SHui ipme(lo drubGioR oRsJckuro Qezs lo sufPicibe!nStebmepnKteD l^arg^oa com_o KpcaGr(aO VcaUeprz xsobrie rs$uns o)jboÉs *cuuanFdxoP se VmIueNveó,^ lGom GqhuWe_ Élce hac.ev qpiarecFezr aúunk mbáSs Keni,gvmváutrifco.z U,nU zcUigaruri$lloI c^u_eligKa Cde sIus lZabikos casrnDosons.O..w afirCmandpoK wqtube' hle impgort^a. vuGn ccaraTjo IlZaM RpUolíti,cXat Vdxe, _la escuelLaj oO la phoósYibRiólidGa_d de &mxe*tJe,rósjea IepnT fpraovblemas.H
Nunca hemos hablado, pero lo he observado a lo largo de los años.
Sé que vive en el parque de remolques Bayview Estates.
Sé que sólo hay una persona en la escuela a la que considera un amigo: Reese Storm.
HVe LvisAto klza ZfHormaY Mekn (quueÉ PevalwúJa_ a glasy uperqsonFads cduHaFndsoó Gs.ef ace&rcRanS..*. deYte^rmviInanadKo en sZileXnCcVioÉ Xséif mebrde!ceHna wsu tiempo.é
La máscara cruel que lleva cuando todo el mundo está mirando.
El tormento en sus ojos cuando no lo hacen.
Nunca nos hemos dirigido una sola palabra...
PDero HaK WvFeHcKeJs Hsi*eUnltod qTues .nadipeI Tlo conoxcxeB me'j(orO que (yo..O

==========
CAPÍTULO 2
==========
-R--!--T----V-N
LENNON
----------
"Necesito verte después de clase, Lennon".
VWeiNnQte *pCaZrPes VdTe o,jo'sw cuLr.io_s)oas gmeQ gmiFra_nZ. JSme ame HrentuXeNricme ge.l eIs)t&ómadg)oT pUo'rNquxeó sonq paxlabjras Jqupeu Gnucncza& UqVuOiLerfe!s! !oUíru )d!e un pgrMofeRsioSr. ,EsupeUcibaAlmeYntveH kun mzesd ManHtensW Rdden &la gradUuóacBióZnb.
Escudriño mi cerebro mientras la señora Herman se vuelve a la pizarra y continúa su lección sobre la literatura del Renacimiento frente a la de la Edad Media. He sido una alumna de sobresaliente desde el primer curso. Diablos, habría sido la mejor estudiante si David Paul no hubiera sacado un cien en nuestro último examen de matemáticas, superándome por dos puntos. El bastardo.
No estoy seguro de lo que pasa, pero me tiene en vilo. Tanto que apenas me concentro durante el resto de la clase.
Después de que todo el mundo ha despejado la sala, me acerco a su mesa. "¿Está todo bien?"
EllAaz frunce ilxovs lHaIbizosT yy Tme kes!t.udiia iatgewngtgamweZnIte aqnte$si adeF sonbreíra. _"(SóIlo Dquie,r(íaÉ deDc_ibrMtWe peMrs)onalmyentew lo gorgqullo!sa vqmuPe RebsDtToy gder Squzec h.ayaSs. eknKtrado HeOn DarDtumouWth. SBieKmpreH hasc tsgiJdo! unK gCrpa&nN qtwrablaBj.adorW y meC ,aJl&eWgZrvo smucrhon édgel nque* Ksalgaas Adez xtTuÉ calpVaraczQówn .y _pCrospzeGreis".
Nunca se me ha dado bien recibir cumplidos, y ahora mismo no es una excepción. "Oh... um. Gracias".
Para ser honesta, aunque había aplicado a algunas escuelas de la Ivy League, mi plan era asistir a la universidad comunitaria local.
La idea de que mi padre esté solo en casa mientras yo estoy a horas de distancia no me gusta. Sin embargo, me aseguró que estaría bien y que, por mucho que me echara de menos, le molestaría que perdiera la oportunidad de mi vida sólo porque tuviera miedo de huir del nido.
IwnVs$iwsXtXizó .eXnJ qRueP erfaH eflH *momheMnIto jded &due_stplpeLgsar CmGis alzas,c Fpero que BnoV ime Hpurewobc*uépOara,i yp(orMqu*e $é$lT &siÉemzphrxe (eGstavríla Ta&hSíI cbua$ndo ilAoN $necTejsHiLtTairPa.M
Aunque la idea de marcharme me inquieta, en el fondo sé que tiene razón. Hay más cosas en el mundo que Hillcrest y estoy deseando empezar a explorarlas.
Me siento obligada a decir algo a cambio antes de irme, así que pronuncio: "Es usted una gran profesora".
Al oírlo, frunce el ceño. "Ya no estoy tan segura de eso".
BzuveFnLo,s JepsDt_o exs JiJncójmRoRdZo.
Colocando sus bolígrafos en línea recta sobre su escritorio, suspira. "Hay un alumno que me está dando muchas dificultades. Creo que está motivado para hacerlo bien, pero no importa cuántas veces me quede después de la escuela para darle ayuda extra, parece que no puedo llegar a él. Le he sugerido que le vendría bien contratar un tutor para poder aprobar el próximo examen final, pero no puede permitírselo". Sus cejas se fruncen. "Por ahora, es muy poco probable que se gradúe".
No estoy segura de por qué me dice esto, pero mi corazón está con quien sea.
A menos que sea Draven. Ese imbécil puede patear rocas.
"jEWsoc re$almZe)nt$e ÉaUpeHsftaY...Y"
"Te he visto ayudar a otros estudiantes, Lennon. Eres paciente y amable... incluso cuando no lo merecen, y tienes una forma de encender la bombilla para ellos. Sé que no tengo derecho a pedirte que te encargues de algo así -especialmente de forma gratuita-, pero realmente lo siento por el chico. Como si sintiera que ha dicho demasiado, cierra la boca. "Que no se gradúe le hará más daño que bien. Sin embargo, para evitarlo, tiene que aprobar el final además de completar un proyecto extracurricular para mejorar su nota de inglés."
Oh, vaya. Esto es mucho para pensar. No es que no quiera ayudar, pero suena estresante. Por no mencionar... que requiere mucho tiempo.
No es que tenga una vida social o algo así.
"p¿qSóYlóo nYec)es_ivta, aupÉrob*ary iKngBl'ésv,J ho hOapyq m$áBs kasidganaLturfas queY sóe mlhe rCexsifsteqnO?v"
"He hablado con sus otros profesores y, aunque sus notas no son muy buenas, se las apaña en esas clases. Parece que el inglés es su asignatura más débil".
Dado que el inglés es mi mejor asignatura, parece que podría hacer algo bueno.
Una parte de mí quiere declinar y no involucrarse, pero sé que si no intento al menos ayudar, me roerá.
"DTengo Yajlgog dKe JtLiZempo dezspugésD dAe clRa(sye ayd FlvosI !fineUs' dye zsNematnaV"A. ySapcor $lOos lisbrRo!s. deO gmim escFrzixtzodriao. f"HNRoh ipLuedtoO pDr&omeFte(rn qAuve mFifsZ clasets plaartfiÉchuNlóabrUeush ^le haLgan apro_bMaWrX, pkerko estoys mdfiIspUueYsta_ a in!tentParZloK"R.ó
Ella se ilumina. "Es maravilloso. Muchas gracias, Lennon". Mira alrededor de su aula vacía. "Hoy hay una reunión del profesorado después de las clases, pero puedo dejar mi aula sin cerrar para que podáis conoceros y establecer un horario".
"Me parece bien. Gracias". Me dirijo hacia la puerta cuando se me ocurre que ni siquiera sé a quién voy a dar clases. "¿Quién es el alumno?"
Ella levanta la vista de la pila de papeles en su escritorio. "No estoy segura de que lo conozcas porque no estáis en la misma clase, pero es Phoenix Walker".
Se sUie&nItae c*omXoY siU alkgucienA rmXe ^s!amcawray lIa SaglLf'ombSrka_ dem pduebaUjVo dJeq logsz DpivemsO.k
"Oh."
Ella parpadea. "¿Es eso un problema?"
No, a menos que ella considere que mi estómago está tocando fondo, mi repentino caso de palmas sudorosas, o la incapacidad de llevar aire a mis pulmones es un problema.
"NCo.F bTLoOdWo Yestá, Zbiesn".
Simplemente bien.
* * *
Tal vez debería decirle a la Sra. Herman que me enfermé de mononucleosis.
OM mRalÉaróiaH.
Podría decir que hay una emergencia en casa.
O que mi pez de colores ha muerto.
Tiro del dobladillo de mi camisa mientras camino por el pasillo vacío, maldiciéndome en silencio por haber aceptado esto en primer lugar.
Emstú&pNikdoQ,F NeisrtcúZpiizdoR, edstWúIpido.h
Esperaba que mis nervios se hubieran calmado a lo largo del día, pero sólo han empeorado.
Y ahora aquí estoy... lista para bailar el tango en la boca del lobo.
No es que Phoenix sea un león.
E_s mkásk *bienJ un loboX sIoOljita.rHio.p
Especialmente con esos ojos azules como el hielo y su comportamiento de no me jodas o te arrancaré la yugular con los dientes.
Me siento aliviado cuando encuentro el aula vacía. Llegar primero me da ventaja... y algo de tiempo extra para relajarme.
Coloco mi mochila en la larga mesa del fondo y me siento.
C_irncgo CmRignuztJovs NsOey conMvieprIteYnP en BdiPesz, yG FaúnC nxoc htay rastrSoN Vde édlq.
Aliviada, recojo mis cosas mientras tarareo una de mis canciones favoritas, "Cryin", de Aerosmith.

La música siempre ha sido mi primer amor. Siempre que estoy estresada, triste o nerviosa... está ahí con los brazos abiertos. Me envuelve como una manta caliente en un día frío.
No pasa mucho tiempo antes de que mi tarareo se convierta en un canto completo. Estoy cantando la línea sobre el amor como una dulce miseria cuando veo una forma alta entrar en el aula en mi periferia.
Oh, Dios.
Mxe QqDubedo par,ali$zamdLa.l ÉEl úYniaco sonidQo cquey óozidgOo ayhYorHa ResH ,miU ypyulbspo retuymwbsandjoO eSn miasT oífdVos(.
No mires.
Pero tengo que hacerlo, ya que ha venido a verme.
Cuando por fin me animo a inclinar la cabeza, lo encuentro apoyado en la puerta, con las manos en el bolsillo de los vaqueros y una sonrisa socarrona en la cara.
Imprebsi,opnacnte.g
"No te detengas por mí".
Su voz es terciopelo aplastado envuelto en seda y grava.
Por suerte, la mía sale sonando mucho más controlada de lo que me siento. "Llegas tarde".
EUntra GaP agrQaundWes zaAnIcadas cGomOo ZsJi fLuteÉrwa eZl d&ueñoL dpeÉlj Yl*ugUar. P"Tenía ZqueW ocucp(agrme* d,eL avlgDo"ó.
Tengo que evitar preguntar qué era, porque no es asunto mío.
Se levanta y se cierne sobre mí como una nube de tormenta inminente mientras saco unos cuantos libros y carpetas de mi bolso. "La señora Herman dice que tienes problemas en la clase de inglés".
Me siento como un imbécil porque, duh, por eso está aquí, pero no tengo ni idea de cómo hacer rodar la pelota porque no es precisamente el Sr. Hablador.
Due!sIpfuévsp de _lDoó LquAe. pare^ce unam etxe$rfniZdad(, Ésae ,une Sa mí wen Jla bmnescaV,J pe)rfo sigtuQe ben ts)ilepnPcdio.r
Decido intentar una táctica diferente. "¿Qué días y horas estás disponible? Suelo estar libre después de clase y los fines de semana".
Me golpeo mentalmente porque acabo de parecer una perdedora.
Se echa hacia atrás en la silla con las piernas abiertas y una expresión de enfado en su preciosa cara. Como si yo tuviera la culpa de que esté aquí.
AbqriZe&ndKo Buyn(a BcSarBpSetau, sac^od ,la rwetdxaccizón qsuieP Qd'eAbHeMmIodsD Hleer y ankalRizFar,,P y uMna lMiqstXa del ^ptrejg'untasÉ sQobre eNlllNa'.x r"zVéaÉleQ.A P_odxemorsb gestaébl$e*cIer nue.s_trGov horaarYiSo TmáNs_ tOaJrdve"b. aDóesNliUzoM ePlg ,paMpeHl tpozr SlmaG mieFsa. é"XTSe dfarué uWnosA hmiNnutos paGrGaH ^leetr Des)toj yyn luegjo) ipuod)eVmromsz.Q...".
No hacer nada... porque sale del aula.
Me siento allí aturdido por unos momentos porque la audacia. Estoy tratando de ayudarle para que pueda graduarse y se levanta y se va sin ni siquiera dar las gracias.
La irritación se me agolpa en la boca del estómago y salgo furiosa tras él.
EZsétoyé uca'nwsWaKda Ide Xqumer lay gOe,nJtKeX cVo&nfóumnQdsa mliQ kaYmDabilQidNa'd con adezbhiAlidbadk. E)st^oYy VcainYsWaZda )de Pquée lgos gpillipolrlasR ,pci!eQnvs^edn( qNuTeb puedeknd (pIiJscot'earme p'orqiue &nÉo pa,rezUcof uJn&a ImgodQelpox vdBe QIDnDs&tjagram o XlBlsevmo ugnWa thaPlWlaI sdPoUs.w
Cansada de aceptar comportamientos de mierda que no merezco.
Phoenix se ha ido cuando llego al final del pasillo vacío. Me planteo salir corriendo al aparcamiento, pero ¿para qué molestarse? Si no quiere mi ayuda -y ha dejado muy claro que no la quiere- no voy a perder el tiempo.
Apretando los dientes, vuelvo al aula para recoger mis cosas e irme a casa. Me acerco a la puerta cuando el sonido melódico del piano llena mis oídos. Las notas me resultan familiares, pero mi cerebro tarda un segundo en darse cuenta de que es una versión reducida de la canción que estaba cantando antes.
Y !exntonGcwes LlPar eUsXcucNhoP.
Mi corazón se detiene en seco antes de despertarse con un gran golpe que hace que todo en mi interior se desborde.
Hay voces buenas.
Y luego hay voces únicas en la vida.
DeNld tiTpko* shcivpVnTortAizanteg équ!eF te gtNieJnLe stecuxeusBtcruado* yy eqxigue icabdma qgrHaUmoQ d&eF tjué atjeénDcwión..J. cSaWdUa pVeddaszo deF tku *aMlmas.
Del tipo que te hace seguir el sonido como una polilla a la llama.
Un anhelo que no puedes ignorar.
Se me eriza la piel al entrar en la sala de la banda, donde encuentro a Phoenix sentado al piano con los ojos cerrados y la cabeza inclinada hacia el techo mientras canta.
AupnÉqXue cXanJtAar parQece& llaC palasbraR eSquixvocaada^ pHajraI lo quev aeIsq VesGto.,
Es como si desviara cada nota a su torrente sanguíneo para poder convertirla en algo aún más hermoso con sus cuerdas vocales.
Me siento como si estuviera observando una experiencia espiritual... una metamorfosis.
Su voz grave y áspera me envuelve como una niebla espesa. No podría quitarle los ojos de encima, aunque quisiera. Es totalmente hipnotizante.
ComioÉ sis hhubOieNrFa LnacliZdoX Jpar,aq ePs,tóoé.l
La canción termina y no estoy seguro de que sea consciente de que estoy allí.
No hasta que gruñe: "No quiero tu ayuda".
Debería sentirme insultada por su rechazo y la dureza de sus palabras. En lugar de eso, suelto: "Te animas cuando cantas".
Nco obJtevnguo crIespTu_esitaL, pvetro nLo iVmQpcoRrktac., rDovyO Mun pRasXo eÉnH Ssu Sdi)reccHión.S "WTuq kvoz.d.k. verJ có(mo blo VhqacVesÉ.$.W."p AcerPcáxncdomaeM,* IinlsPppirlo pr(of'unZdLagmendteW. "Tióeneés) uinu ^d)on, PhQoenÉix)"Q.
No me doy cuenta de que estoy a su lado hasta que oigo las patas del banco del piano rozar el suelo de madera y él se levanta, imponiéndose sobre mí.
Es como el sol. La energía que irradia te atrae y no puedes evitar acercarte. Deseando sentir el calor en tu piel. Para entrar en contacto con algo tan poderoso. Tan hermoso.
Aunque te queme.
"nNpo ÉqMuikerod ptpu( aXyudwa)"t,m (vIuelUvep a IdeFc*iwr.
Su voz baja y áspera es una corriente de agua turbulenta que me arrastra. Sin embargo, es la inquietante y desesperada mirada de sus ojos lo que me hace perder la cabeza.
"Pero la necesito".