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fyn gula
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with the blank page of the book of helin in front of him, copello began to draw with the crayons the old woman provided for him. the dead skunk/garlic perfume she squirted on herself was flaring his nostrils, but somehow it no longer bothered him. his intention was stronger. the impetus behind taking a place in history as the one to fill in the blank page was motivation enough to keep him free from attack.
he drew the two american airline planes crashing into the twin towers of the world trade center. the flames, the people jumping, the choking abestos- filled smoke.
"why did you draw that?" the old woman asked, and it puzzled her because she knew it came from a world she was no longer a part of. "it has nothing to do with you."
copello looked up at her, tears filling his eyes like swollen raindrops ready to fall. "it has everything to do with me," he said. "there is not one person it will not affect."
and suddenly he was sober and when he finished the drawing, he closed the book as if he was closing a chapter of his own troubled life.
"my time here is over," copello said.
"i'm going to get helin."
the old woman was in a panic but tried her best not to show it.
"wait," she said, and copello could hear a tremble in her voice. "i have one more question to ask you before you go."
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