ACT III, de Leonor Macedo

Título: Act III
Leonor Macedo

Nota da autora: Este excerto é parte de um trabalho que está em processo desde há uns meses para cá. É também algo em que tenho trabalhado no âmbito do Mestrado. Toca num assunto que se pode dizer, hoje em dia, que está “mais que batido” mas a isso respondo com uma das minhas máximas como escritora e como leitora: Clichés são bons, desde que sejam bem feitos. E os clichés existem para ser subvertidos, explorados, gozados e aproveitados. Porque no fundo, clichés são a formatação através da qual vemos o mundo. E é sempre bom explorar isso.


«“This shot will ease the transition,” Doctor Mortimer had promised. “The symptoms will become less intense.” He had been wrong.

As always, the disease burned in his veins, pumping his muscles, distending his jaw and nose, ripping a howl from inside of him. He lost himself right from the start, though he desperately clung to who he was, or who he had been. The fear in him turned into instinct, bitterness into anger.

“Dr. Mortimer, something is wrong,” a woman’s voice said, her voice. He turned to it, seeing them all on the other side of the iron bars. “He isn’t calmer. It’s not working.”

He could smell her worry and their fear. But by then the disease had reached his mind. It was as if everything was becoming clear after a fog. He forgot all, everything that didn’t matter, gone. What mattered was that they had caged him and that he must get out. Then he caught their scent, the scent of their flesh, and he howled and growled and pulled at the chains, bit at the air in front of them, as if he could catch them if he stretched enough.

They left, Elisa never taking her eyes off him, Jacques with a grim expression and the doctor confused. Benjamim was left alone with his disease. His curse.

His awareness waxed and waned through the night, more so than usual, and a small part of him, at the back of his consciousness, wondered if it was the effect of the drugs. The night was made of flashes and images; moments of pure action when struggling to get free was his whole life, his arms and chest burning from the strain of struggle against chains. There were moments of darkness, when all he was was instinct and anger and the movement of harsh breathing. Then there were moments of remembrance, when he would know who he was, what came before and after the transformations and he would howl for what he had lost, for what he was loosing, for loosing himself. He wished for oblivion in the beast that consumed him from within.

When morning came he was prostate on the floor, having taken his body past it’s limit. Most times, he fell asleep long before they returned and removed the chains, before they placed him back in his bed and tended to whatever wounds he had inflicted upon himself. That time however, he woke up as he felt himself be lifted from the floor. He opened his eyes wearily and saw her holding his ankles, felt someone else hold him under his arms. They did not notice he was awake.»

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