Before turning the light on I already knew he was dead. That dream that I had told me about it. Now, it showed to me so faded that I hardly remember it, but, I don't mind, I know he is dead.

I stand up from the sofa and I realize something: The gun is not next to me anymore. My eyes look straight towards his room's door, while a haze of bad thoughts, besides a cold sweat which runs through my spine, almost make me dizzy. Would he had done it? I had to enter there and find out, but, at the same time that a higher worry was taking control of me, the fear, more exactly, the panic, seemed to cover me completely, paralyzing me like a wax figure.

Suddenly, I could react. I run to the room, stopping myself in front of that closed door and knocking it, with the hope of listening to his voice or, at least, waking him up from a deep dream. With this last idea on my mind, I could have the courage for opening the door.

His body lied, covered by that robe, but on the floor instead of the eyes checked out the bed was unmade, but he, clearly, was dead. I felt my vision blurred while I put on my knees in front of him, desperate for finding out some vital sign in his body. He had no pulse. His heart had no beat. I tried not to give up by practicing him the CPR. But it was late, too late.

Despite of the fact that I felt relieve when I did not find remains of blood over his body and the gun neither, I could not help crying for what had happened. I cried and cried so bitterly as if who was dead was someone who I loved. If he was that someone, it did not mind at all now, because I could never show him that.

Since that morning I knew something was wrong with him. That is why I wanted to talk to him, looking for him and, in last instance, save him. I felt him and saw him so identical to me, with fears, doubts, secrets... That I needed to save him. Maybe so, in a future, he could save me.

I could not leave him like that. It was clear that I would have to made up some excuse, but I was not going to abandoned him. Still with the terror over my body, I left the room and I went towards the phone. I dialed the number of the closest hospital. I had not to fake the pain in my voice, but I had to do it with part of my conversation:

"It is... It is my father. I think he had... A heart attack , I have tried the CPR, but he does not react, no…Please, come as soon as posible".

I hung out the phone and I returned to the room. I coud not stop crying and I held to him. I still had the feeling that I would find him sitting on the bed, repeating the last thing he told me that night:

"Do not worry about me. I am fine".

"No, you were not!I knew you were not, Sir!" I shouted him. I was aware of the tremendous nosense that now had to keep going calling him Sir, as well as the fact of shouting him due to obvious circumstances, but I needed it.

A few moments later, I observed that clock which lied face down. I just did that, observate it, without touching it. I had to keep everything just like it was, despite it was evident that he had suffered a heart attack. I went far the room again to pick up my clothes, which probably they were already dry around that chimney. It was then when I saw pieces of papers being consumed slowly by the fire. They seemed to be too many for thinking that they were there for some casual reason.

Sadly, I thought of the romantic idea that those pieces of papers were goodbye letters due to his inminent suicide. Yes, that one I knew he was going to commit when I found out the gun, the bullets and all those papers about life assurance, testament and stuff like that. In the center there were a black suit, a white shirt and a tie. Now, the table was empty.

When they came from the hospital, I kept myself in a cautious distance, still sobbing. When they told me that there was nothing more they could do for him , before they left, I gave them a phone number and asked them to dial it from the hospital, because I did not feel in conditions to do it. That was another lie, in theory, since, how to explain to that person who I did not even know, who was I, how did I get to there and what had happened? Per se, It was going to be very strange when they told that person what kind of relative gave them the number. I just found his address book, I opened it casually on the letter C, I saw that name and I made that decision. So, at least, he will have someone who gives him a deserved farewell.

I stayed near the entrance door watching how they took him in that trolley. Again, and while I looked at that enormous house in which I was, I understood that when he decided to live, his time came. No more Huxley, no more sights, no more reflections. He was gone.

I took a last look to that house, which hours before I had labelled as a part of a perfect life, something in which he seemed to doubt. Now, everything seemed to me so far, so unreal...

I closed the door behind me and I walked out thinking in one thing only: It was going to be hard for me to go on, but I would make it through, although it was just for him, who could not make it.