Back then I was afraid, although I wasn’t ready to confess it to me because I didn’t even knew that was fear what I was feeling. There was no form of which my gestures, would be of the good ones, the aggressive ones, or be of the cruel ones, end up raising all at once the whole height of your nobility or of digging the improbable well of your turpitude; no, there were never enough the things that I did. I was lacking age to know that I was remaining, that you were who did not know what to do, how to take, of what way to value and to compensate each of all my declarations.
When I finally began to wake up, to realize, it was a sticky wave of shame covering my whole skin, a sort of an intense hangover where the remorse was not giving place to a light depression, or to a calm guilt and distancing feeling, but to thathelplessness that feels when you realize that you been rip off and to not being able to do anything about it, because the swindler did not only has run with the loot, but it did not even left the possibility of being accused. Not even anger, not resentment, perhaps, yes, a slight sign of pity.
I did not even foreseen it, at least not completely, because my old man and the protector had trained me too good in that matter of the spite and the revenge, first of all; second, because I had learned to direct my energies to happier matters, of more alive colors. So when it came down to that dilemma and the flares had to gout, it did not cost me anything to destroy what I had to destroy, more for practicality that with some twinkle of pleasure or anger, more with inertia than with sorrow or with glory. I managed to look in you the astonishment in your eyes, the misfortune.