2

Something was moving in the bushes, but Carlos saw nothing, except he heard the noise of the foliage as it moved. I was sure it was not strange at all. At night, there were animals in the forest and more in the Espuña Mountains, a natural site of a good number of protected species. It could be a lynx. It was the first thing that came to mind, but as he looked toward the area from which the noise came, he saw the white wall of the sanatorium, bright, in the mean light of the moon, which gave it a ghostly appearance. The dark eyes of the whole main facade continued to watch the forest as empty basins. The front door, forged of iron and as tall as a truck, looked like a mouth with long teeth, waiting to open at any moment.

Carlos still had the shotgun held in both hands, as if his life depended on it. The crossbow was on the ground and the arrows too. His breathing was intermittent, and he felt like a cold sweat running down every facials feature. He needed his medication and he thought he remembered that he had wandered through the forest for three days, not knowing exactly what he was doing or what he was after.

His bladder about to explode cried out for an eternal piss, but it did not move from the ground. His eyes looked around and moved within their sockets like balls held by springs. His eyes were wide as plates, and the vague light of the moon drew silhouettes among the shadows that seemed to shine at times, like a dense, sticky fog.

He felt another noise and his head tilted to the left as soon as the sound ceased. There was nothing, but now he could feel his heart at his temples, rumbling like a drum. He was a man of few words and barely spoke alone. His lips remained sealed like the sticky sides of the paper in a  mail envelope.

Now the wind rose like a blanket that covered everything, warm and muggy you could hear whistles in the branches of the trees that seemed to cry of emotion or perhaps of sadness.

And meanwhile, he kept waiting.