Óscar Cerezo

Óscar Cerezo was born in Madrid one summer of 1978, although destiny decided that his favorite season would be autumn. Tireless creator, he is the author of Making Love with Words, with four editions that guarantee his success, and his current work El Mercader de Sentimientos, where he shows a mature version in his way of writing, with his own style. Óscar Cerezo combines his Police profession and responsibility as a father with his sentimental literary art, where as always he is open-hearted.

-A sea of gray hair-

Where there is a rat, there are more rats and the sound coming from behind the wall confirms that it is so. The door without a peephole is closed and its shrieks stick like pins into my temple. I hear them running around the ceiling, they are gnawing the plaster and the wood. I still can't see them but I feel the pressure between them, piled up looking for a way out, a point of light, the smell of my blood. There are no windows, just a bed, a bedside table without drawers, and a knife with a stained blade. The grinding of his teeth sounds like chalk, and the plaster on the wall begins to fall off. I see their snouts, their tongues wetting the fur of the most impatient. Her nails scrape moisture from the ceiling, slamming a waterfall that seems to explode onto the floor. They bolt toward the door, the bed, and I climb onto the nightstand before my feet touch. They look dazed, almost all of them are gray and smell the air, their hair is dirty, sticky. The black ones are bigger, they pass over the rest with their mouths open and one of them approaches the shadow of the wall, where a puff of shrieks breaks the hole and another handful crowds wanting to get out. I squeeze the knife and they begin to climb the legs of the table. Some scamper around the bed, bite into the pillow that smells like me, fight among themselves to gnaw my aroma and their eyes don't stop shining like coffee beans. Rats are still falling from the ceiling and the gap is now larger. I look at the knife, I look at the sea of gray hair, its screams pierce me. It smells of damp, stagnant water and at that moment someone knocks on the door without a peephole.

Óscar Cerezo

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