14

Squatting, as if he were making his needs under the radiance of the moon, Carlos had the lower limbs with cramps and a continuous tingling that reached his ass. The crossbow was on the ground, but the shotgun was firmly attached to his body. He had no intention to shoot because he had not seen anything. However, it was easy that at any moment, within his field's vision they interposed or above all, her. The line between reality and fantasy was now blurred, but he knew that those unfortunates, they were just a bunch of tourists who had been trapped in the middle of the night because they did not understand what they were talking about. It was another language. His eyes, which looked whitish under the grey light of the moon, perverse that night, looked at their tight bodies and all their movements. Although he did not understand them, something inside him, told him that they were only young people who did not know what really was going to happen that night. And he had to restrain his brotherly instinct, not to stand up and scare them away with a shot, but another part of him insinuated that those anxious bodies could be them. Those who lamented at night and during the day.

Those who were abandoned to their fate when closing the Sanatorium in 1962. Or simply her. The one that stood out above the others. He needed to take the pills and drink water. He was dry like the desert and lips were beginning to be sticky. The bushes half a meter high covered him up to the neck and for the moment, had gone unnoticed by everyone.

At least for the moment.

Then he observed that those young people stopped at what they should have seen from the beginning. Something they had overlooked, maybe because before it was not there.

He needed those fucking medications.