Una mia traduzione di un bellissimo racconto di Matilde Colarossi oggi su #ParallelTexts.
Another endless discussion. Dysfunctional, as they all were, and silent departing.
From the next room, the words took on a familiar hue. She listened, not listening. They were always the same words. They started with “she” and trailed off into a familiar refrain which would no longer touch her.
She heard them nod and whisper. Conspiring.
She, different, and lonely, and alone. The odd one out.
No real family for her, but also no more self-loathing.
Murmurings like the tide ebbing and flowing, peaks of sound like waves splashing against innocent rocks, filtered under the door like indecorous smells from septic tanks on cold winter days.
She laid the clothes carefully in her suitcase; she rolled thread bare socks into corners; she tucked fake silk scarves into pockets. Zipped and closed hermetically.
She, another she was being described in the adjoining room. She, another she, was being ravaged…
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