The Man with no Face

Matteo D., Deputy Editor

Wasn’t predictable that at five pm, in the middle of Missouri there would have been a traffic jam, one of those that one simply cannot pass.

Hundreds of cars were spread across the five-lane road, and thousands of people waited for this imperfect gear to unlock and spin again. Every two or three minutes the situation seemed better, but as soon as their wheels gave a hint of movement, the infinite pipe of mechanisms continued to clog, again and again.

John knew he just had to buy two or three things for his wife, the argument hadn’t been serious so he probably only needed to buy some ham and cheese, and then she would have cried while eating, falling in the chronic depression she had tried to hide since she was nineteen and pregnant with her second baby. He would have dried a tear from her, pale, white cheek and given her reassuring words, the only thing that had kept their relationship together. Not knowing it, a thought came out in his mind. What if he didn’t talk to her? What if he couldn’t talk to her? What if he abandoned her? No, he could not. They had been best friends for thirty-five years, lovers for twenty-eight, parents for twenty-seven. They were destined to be together. He used to say, I’m John- she’s my Yoko. Her hatred for Yoko Ono cancelled this feeling, but when they finished an argument the scene continued to repeat. Her crying, him apologizing.

I was dreaming of the past

And my heart was beating fast

I began to lose control

I began to lose control

I was feeling insecure

You might not love me anymore

I was shivering inside

I was shivering inside

But he couldn’t think of that. He had to think positive. He had to think of the moment. He was in the middle of the road, with nothing to bring her and stuck in his little town, he could not find any way to escape. The heat was entering his skin, his thin epidermis welcomed the sun’s shining light and powerful rays with instant sweat and the sweat, becoming somehow gelatinous and dense, wet his shirt thoroughly. Heat had always caused him instant attacks of sleepiness, his mother called him ‘fresh and wake’, teasing his difficulty to stay awake during the summer days.

He slumbered into a profound sleep in the stationary traffic jam. In the dreams he entered, he could enter and come out of cars, entering from the rear door and enjoying the ride for ten, twenty seconds. Then, he came out, looked around the motorway to spot his new car. Now, he entered. At a glance, he woke up. He wasn’t in any car. He couldn’t see any cars; he couldn’t see anything at all. Swallowing his pain, he could not understand. He could feel something on his shirt. Then, he entered an infinite sleep. Good night ‘fresh and wake’. Good night, forever.