Mother loves daylight, however, today, in this gloomy church, she's not complaining.
Usually she complains about it all the time.
The priest speaks lowly. Mother, who is hard of hearing, again, says nothing.
Everybody is watching her. She hates that but, today it doesn't bother her.
Mother is dead.
Me, I'm near to her, I speak to her. She can hear me, I knowit, I feel it.
She's close to me. It doesn't trouble me.
I can see her the other night, sitting by the fire. She's old. Suddenly, a noise outside.
I knew what it was. She didn't hear it. She let me get up to see... a man before me.
He cast me a cynical smile while pretending to hit my mother. I cannot move. I know this man. I turn my head. My mother is there.
We continue to talk. "What were we talking about"?
There are lots of people in church today, for you mother. Everyone so sad.
"What you are not? Who is speaking to me? Who is there? Is it you mother?"
While I stroll around the garden, Mother makes our tea. It is dark.
Dizziness - fall - earth - rain.
Later an armchair, "Mother, where's my tea?" I'm soaked. I go into the kitchen. Mother is on the floor, her head smashed in. I knew. I'm not sad.
In the mirror, the man smiles back at me. The same way as the night before. In my mind, I see the scene again. It was I who killed her.
In the garden, I knew that she was lost. I didn't want to hurt her.
Not I, yes I, it is I.
I understand.
I - church - death - straitjacket - asylum?
Me - madness - murder - mother?
It was so cold last night. Sorry mother.
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