The wind battered the red curtains spilling in from the balcony, while inside the room, Goethe hadn't moved in days.
His suit, still pristine, bore the crumples of sleepless nights, and under his eyes had formed sickly violet rings.
He stared blankly into space, seated cross-legged on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, hands gripping his knees like a child curled inside a nightmare.
The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath his compulsive, restless movements.
Every now and then, he muttered to himself, barely audible :
— "It wasn't me… It wasn't me… I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to…"
Claws tearing at his hair incessantly, frustration creeping into his heart, his face covered in still warm cuts.
His gaze trembled — wild and unfocused — darting from one corner of the room to another, as if he were seeing something no one else could see.
A figure.
A shadow.
Or maybe nothing at all.
