I remember that last dinner with my parents with a strange clarity. There was nothing out of the ordinary at the table: the same old dishes, the same somewhat tense atmosphere, and that conversation that meandered through awkward silences and superficial comments. Since I was a child, the television had disappeared from the dining room, leaving in its place a silence that demanded to be filled with words. That day, however, our words hung in the air cautiously, as if we feared awakening something hidden within the folds of routine.
We spoke briefly about the new virus, although they only called it that because nobody really understood what it was. It had been five years since we'd left COVID behind, but this situation was radically different. The news was vague, borders had closed too quickly, and the faces of those reporting from abroad showed inexplicable, unsettling smiles.
A sudden scream fractured our conversation. I stood up immediately and looked out the window, my parents behind me. In the street, an impossible scene shattered all logic: in front of the building, an entire family was attacking each other amidst demented laughter. My eyes locked onto the little girl's, huge and confused, watching as her own father threw her against a windshield until she lay still. A deep shiver ran down my spine seeing the blood mixed with the strange smile that persisted on the man's face.
We closed the curtains quickly, with almost instinctive movements. My father stood motionless, frozen in an expression of deep disbelief, as if his mind were desperately trying to make sense of that irrationality. My mother trembled, an almost imperceptible shudder, as she sealed every crack through which that horror might seep. In a few minutes, the house was immersed in a soft darkness, broken only by the white light of the lamps.
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I dialed my brother's number, but there was no signal. For a few seconds, nothing was heard. A dense silence, as if the world were holding its breath.
The subsequent stillness was short-lived. My mother, trying to distract herself from what had happened, attempted to gather the clothes hanging near a window. Suddenly, she began to laugh. It was a soft laugh at first, almost contained, but it quickly became deep, painful, terrifying. I watched her, stunned, unable to recognize her in that face distorted by the smile.
"Mom?" I asked, feeling my voice break under the weight of fear. She didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed on the bright, whitish light of the bulb above her head, a vacant, strange gaze. I ran to the switch, pressed it hard, but it didn't react. My mother kept laughing, unable to stop, although in her eyes I perceived a shadow of panic, an internal struggle against something stronger than herself.
I vaguely remembered those confusing and almost mocking recommendations I saw in videos: cover your eyes, turn off the lights. With trembling hands, I tore out the lightbulb, and darkness fell suddenly upon us. My mother stopped laughing that very instant, but she remained there, breathing heavily, agitated, with silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
My father kept staring at the living room wall, completely disconnected from reality, his lips moving softly as if in a silent prayer.
I blindfolded them with black cloth, sitting across from them, immersed in a seemingly infinite gloom. I could only hear my mother's ragged breathing and my father's faint murmuring. An unsettling silence filled every corner of the apartment, and the perception of time fractured. I slowly checked my watch: it was already ten at night.
But outside, the day still shone with an impossible, unnatural brightness, as if the sun had decided never to leave us again, watching us from a sky now alien, strange, and perpetual.
