segunda-feira, 2 de maio de 2011

The Angel

Essa é a tradução para inglês que eu fiz do meu conto O Anjo para uma amiga da Malásia que se interessou em lê-lo.

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I made this translation for a malaysian friend of mine that is a total yaoi freak (And everybody loves her for being like this)... Yes, it's for you Hazel William!! (@HazelWillz)

Hope she enjoys this little mix of horror and yaoi. (Despite I think my writing style - full of repetitions and alliterations - doesn't go well with English. =/)

Kisses!

(And if anyone sees any mistake, please tell me! It has been very long since I studied English...)


The Angel


How could it be possible? How could I be capable of not falling in love for such an angel? How, when he was the perfect representation of everything I wanted..? He was my pure desire, for myself and for the world.

I meet him in the most possible appropriate place: suburb, dirty alley, stinky and noiseless. Something like a graceful decaying frame for the terrifying painting of our city, of our lives. The strong smell of flesh and putridity, the flying insects buzz, the entrails all over the floor, spread all over the dead end street like beautiful crimson flowers in a splendid field. And to make things even more astonishing, his crazy smile, displaying the shameless tongue, licking his own lips with ease.

A hand holding an old and rusty knife, the other attached to the hair of a severed head that had once belonged to a man. His common clothes stained and ruined, his blond hair tousled and clammy by some red viscous liquid.

And as the result of a dream, in the background there was a great pair of wings, beautifully painted, all rouge on the wall.

I immediately got passionate for that vision, for that utopia of correction, of revenge against an infested world, deprived of any good. So I found myself evolved in magic and delight, so deeply that the fear wasn’t able to come near me. Why should I fear, if what I witnessed at that time, unlike what the newspapers would come to notice, was not a murder, but the ultimate proof that God existed?

And so did His angels...

An angel walking slow and wobbly – so typical of those accustomed to flying, that walk only on a whim or for some important mission.

An angel of strong blue eyes, lovely and pure.

And lost.

He walked up to me, smiling with eyes full of sorrow and pain. An angel so wrong, foolish enough to let his sacred feet step on the polluted land of men. Crazy enough to allow the blood of filthy sinners to spurt and blemish his skin, smudge his soul.

-Won’t you get away from me? -He asked after a while in a strange voice, as if it was full of surprise or fear. Low, serious, profound and hollow like the voice of a perfect judge.

More steps, so slow; strong and soft at the same time... The bloody blade against my throat so, his dirty fingers in my face ... My body so tense while my heart got more and more accelerated with emotion and some trepidation. My hands were trembling in heretic eagerness to feel him, even though I knew that was wrong.

Even though I knew angels should not be touched by humans...

But how to resist when it was seized by a passion so sudden and a necessity so cruel?

I hugged him showing all my conflicting feelings and despair. My skin was cut, but only slightly since he just let his hands go down, so the knife fell in a tantalizing tingle. He did nothing, asked nothing. Just blessed me with that moment of silence and communion.

And then he turned away with the silent flapping of his invisible wings. Disappeared from my vision and made me fall into despair.

I spent the rest of the week searching for him in the sky without success. I found him sometimes in silly and blasphemous headlines that insisted on calling him "The Devil". Two weeks passed, three acts of divine justice were done. The scene, always the same: dirty alleys, guts on the floor and wing on the walls.

I needed to search for him harder, so my gaze sank from the heavens into the sewers. I walked each lane of the city every night until morning. I could meet sometimes with nothing, sometimes with cats, often with beggars and prostitutes, always with garbage, twice with corpses thrown into a crimson backdrop.

Once with him.

In this glorious night I could finally see each detail of his actions; I could actually feel that were my hands holding the dull knife that severed the flesh with great difficulty and repeated strokes. I could feel my own skin being washed by the fetid heat of that sinner’s blood. It was my pleasure all over the blue eyes, it was my will moving the big hands of the angel. It was my desire that caused his fingers to go under, scupper into the viscera and bowels, bring them out with rejoicing!

Ah... It was my own moan of satisfaction being voiced by sensual lips that I wanted so much upon mine.

So beautiful and pure, exactly like the first time we met, he looked at me with his icy crystal eyes as soon as he ended what he was doing. His hands still soaked in blood, his mouth exposing his tongue in some kind of lust. The slow pace, the dirty hair, the soiled clothes. His smile and his laugh.

His divinity.

Everything, in my direction.

Everything, so slowly.

The knife held so firmly, the splendid gait, the smile of a crazy angel. The hand, red and tottering, coming toward my neck.

And the blue orbs clouding into serene tears.

And my arms around him: a hug of love and adoration, a blasphemy of mine for wanting to touch what was only God’s privilege. Our love was wrong and impossible, I knew, he knew as well. And that's why his tears fell on my shoulders when the only movement of his body was to tremble.

Our magic and profane moment, my feelings of consternation and adoration together. His teeth gently against my neck, his tongue sliding through the mark of our first meeting – the proof that I belonged to him.

My pleasure was expressed in a groan, and then, his eyes turned to me with surprise and confusion. More lost than ever, more desperate than it might be possible.

He was so fragile when I closed my eyes and kissed his lips...

The dirty lips, fouled by the same bitter blood that flowed through his hands. I could taste it on my mouth, also I could savor the almost immoral tongue that excited me... Ah, the lewd tongue that moved so delightful that made me doubt that I was really experiencing such delight!

He embraced me and, with his rude and strong movements, pressed me against the walls of our scenario. He kissed me and allowed me to hear his voice again, so serious and low, almost taking the form of grunts of satisfaction. A voice that rose in volume and excitement with each new bite he gave me. His breath became more than heavy as he squeezed my throat.

I felt his erection against me, I felt him hugging my body and controlling me. His mouth on my shoulders, his voice on my ears. His cursed deep voice teasing, saying he wanted me. His teeth arousing me without any compassion, chilling my skin, causing me unbearable pleasure...

And his tongue... And his hands...

Rough and red hands that messed me, pulled my hair, tore my clothes apart. My will, my need to feel it, to have him as part of me, as if we were one. My happiness in having the knife under my skin, into my flesh, ripping my muscles.

And his eyes still so pure, so clear and blue. So lost in love and care.

His eyes that cried as his teeth and his knife tore everything in me.

My blood on the wall.

My happiness at finally becoming the angel's wings.

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