The key

por Bufón loco

As a child I found an old rusty key of strange bas-reliefs hidden in a hole under a rotten wood in the attic.

Year after year I searched obsessively for the lock that kept the secrets that the key served me on a silver platter. I traversed until the extenuation the most forgotten sites, the most hidden ruins and the most ungodly temples, but the search seemed to be in vain until one night of new moon hit me with the gate.

It was through the darkest gallery of an ancient crypts devoured by time in the dim light of a torch. At the end of a corridor covered with  spider webs a heavy stone door carved with twisted figures from other eras. The same twisted figures that shaped the precious key that accompanied me always chained to my neck.

The key fit perfectly in the keyhole. It turned with the creaking and shuddering of heavy gears, and the door opened ceremoniously with the creaking of its hinges and a cloud of dust. When the dust dissipated, the discovery of what was on the other side horrified me.

It horrified me and I fell in love. That’s why my last conscious acts were to lock the door behind my back, undress and surrender to the cold embrace of the throbbing and obscene darkness that had been locked there for eons waiting for my arrival.
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