Ο πιο τρυφερός μυς είναι η καρδιά

“You don’t have to do this anymore, Dámaso.” I felt the heat of my own emotions. “It’s wrong, deeply wrong. Can’t you see that?”

He shrugged. “I have no choice. I owe it to my family. To my mother.”

“No,” I said. “You owe them nothing. Not your own self, your own body, your heart—”

“She brought me into the world.”

Absurdly, I said, “So did I.”

There was a silence. After a moment, I went on, “You’ve been given a great gift, Dámaso, and I can help you with it—you can live here with us, with Elvira and me, and never have to go out on the street and . . . and damage yourself again, because what your father is doing is evil, Dámaso, evil, and there’s no other word for it.”

He raised a wounded hand and let it fall again. “My family comes first,” he said. “They’ll always come first. I know my duty. But what they’ll never understand, what you don’t understand, is that I do hurt, I do feel it, I do.” And he lifted that same hand and tapped his breastbone, right over the place where his heart constricted and dilated and shot the blood through his veins. “Here,” he said. “Here’s where I hurt.”

Το μπαζάρισε ο chomen.