Stop That, Marma!

You, dear reader, should absorb this content without any (or no) emotional instability, but know that for this work to be made, someone had to bleed internally.Her name is Marma, the only son of the neighbors next door. Every day, I could hear him screaming and screaming for pure suffering, or at least that's what I understood. Almost always were these screams followed by vehement reprimands from his parents. I knew Mr. and Mrs. Carlson well, I knew how austere they were, people whose minds repelled even the slightest modern suggestion. Then I am the old man. On an indeterminate and totally random day, Marma came sporadically to my door, unfortunate was he, with a saddest countenance impossible. He seemed to want to sink to the ground, I couldn't just ignore him.I opened the door, and as it was nine o'clock at night, a pajamas covered me. I looked at the little one, who was dressed with a pink T-shirt and black pants. Suspicious, I asked him: "Well, what brings you to my house at this time of night? It was a joke, since the popular nine o'clock vision is enough clock for any decent person to recondite themselves in their homes. The boy looked up to me, from poor and empty but genuine intentions ─ yes, certainly genuine. "May I spend the night in the house of the Lord? He asked, no hope shining in his eyes. "Yes. Come in." and so, as if in a miserable act of bliss, he smiled at me, entering my hiding place.Hiding place? Yes, I hate ─ very hateful indeed! ─ the society in which we are inevitably immersed. Cursed charlatans, hypocrites in their own romanticised burlesias, hiding their true and real manifestation: only impiety. But who am I to judge today's dogmas and crude ethics? I am only a seventy year old, what value would my words carry for something to be elaborated? That's right, none. An old man, and that's all. Out of my misanthropic philosophical absorption, let us return to history. I sat down in my old-fashioned armchair, and the boy came quickly to me, from the dust all over the floor. "Why are you here?" I asked him out of raw innocence, and he answered me:"My parents said that if I wanted to stay with them I would have to behave like a respectable person. "A respectable person?""Yes. They don't like me to wear pink or purple clothes, because they say they are girl colors"."Oh. That's the problem. I think you'd like to have a talk with Eremiel.""Who's Eremiel?" the boy had trouble pronouncing his name."Up the stairs."And so he went, kind of trepidatious, but of course. I wasn't surprised that the ultra-servicemen afflicted the child with their effeminate manners or even their body mould. The more chromatic preference. There, he met my older brother, Eremiel."Who are you?" I exclaimed with total fervor in my voice, for someone had invaded my surroundings."Your brother sent me. ...to come and see you." Oh, of course. Damn Duma. Now I'd have to deal with another plague. Whatever. I invited the kid into my room, but for that he'd leave his sandals on the doorstep first."Let me guess: you're a boy-girl and your restrictive parents have forbidden you, am I right?""How do you know?" "I know everything. Haha."The boy was intimidated, cabisbie. I laughed, with my black robe floating in the passing wind."Listen good, kid. Don't feel bad about being different from your parents or your friends. Do you think I've always dressed in black all the time in chaotic fantasies?" He was cachinating of humor, I don't know why. It pissed me off.After a long conversation, I called Duma to have tea with us, and we both spent the night in a digressive monologue of souls. via /r/writers https://ift.tt/33hUBfK