The Gargoyle

The coolness of the wall pierced through his shirt. People were screaming and running, hunted by the mortifying silence of a city with too many tall buildings. One of them followed his steps and sat beside him, leaned against his shoulder in that murky corner, then left. They often lose interest and leave, he said to himself.

People came to him in silence and went away screaming.

For so many times his mother told him not to stay alone in silence.

Silence will kill you, she would say.

She knit a hat with a little bell on it. Each movement was a sound until he couldn’t make the difference between movement and sound.

He would sound not walk, making sounds was like walking.

But then the silence grew stronger and the bell died away. Walking became walking again, rare, a language of signs. His fingernails grew long and turned ash gray. His mother knit another bell.

The radio caterwauled: cathedrals in town were inaugurating new statues and artist were currently working on new ones, more realistic than the old ones. Mother was knitting a string of little bells.

One day, an artist came to visit him and was utterly fascinated by the perfection of his body.

Then each shirt, each pair of trousers had little bells on them but silence grew mightier than ever.

That cursed artist took him away and the bells were left alone. He never went back home because he couldn’t. The artist had told him to stay still and so he sat, looking over this city with too many tall buildings.

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