I am taking up some creativity exercises that I had done weeks ago. At that moment, I let chance take me to choose words in a random generator and with those words I would search for a photo that was in a free online service, but this time, I came across a series of short stories and various written that I wrote some years ago and that I have not shared in English, so I thought about translating and publishing them.
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[Source: PxHere](https://pxhere.com/es/photo/893031)
I'm tired. My body rests in the bushes, but I no longer feel it; I am not dead, because I still have a distant sensation of pain that comes and goes without warning. Dogs are looking for me. I hear their barking, but I don't feel the strength to open my eyes and lift my head to try to see them, anyway the darkness is so closed that I wouldn't see them. Total darkness was the last thing I had a notion of before leaving the swamp and hiding in some bushes, in those conditions it was not worth continuing.
It's the first time in months that I can think, tiredness has separated my mind from my body, almost as if we are strangers. I no longer feel the anger and the fear has withdrawn. What led me to kill? I think it is the initial question, later we will see if I still have the strength or the opportunity to ask myself others.
In general, I was a normal subject, at least I remember that, I don't see anything in my past that I could consider strange. This introspection only makes me more curious to find answers. It could be said that everything was a matter of the moment, that there was no cause or motive, that he only killed to kill. That would be a very easy answer, or will it be that I always consider myself superior to those animals that simply do what they do best and can.
It will be that I am dreaming. This throbbing and throbbing pain makes me believe not, but this state of being without feeling almost nothing seems unreal to me. Everything was so real to me before I collapsed here.
Am I insane? I don't think so, the fact of asking myself the question implies a certain lucidity. But it would serve me well to explain my deaths, my flight, and this strange feeling that not feeling is. I wish it was that easy.
Three boys, one of them almost a child. I had no motive, but I did. They were bad boys, but only with their smaller companions, he didn't have to. What kind of bully am I, who had no motive and doesn't recall ever having. We are rare beings.
I begin to wake up if this not feeling can be called a dream. I am in a room, lying on a bed with blankets and pillows. It's dark, but I can see another bed that someone else is in. Where I am?
- Luckily you woke up little brother, you were talking in your sleep - he talks to me, or rather, he growls at me.
I see my body, it is that of a little boy. I'm dreaming? Did I go crazy? What's going on?
- You should see a doctor, it's not that bad. Since your teacher killed those who annoyed you, you haven't been the same.
- I'm just afraid - I tell him the truth, at least my only truth at the moment. I have said it slowly and am terrified to hear my childish voice.
- Sleep a little more, he is in prison and I protect you - he speaks to me with sweetness, I think with affection.
I lie down to sleep and try not to think, as I used to think without feeling.
Dawn is already dawning among the bushes and a fugitive man gets up and starts on his way again while a trembling child tries not to wake up.
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