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.

Blood and a bunch of flowers

"Now you have to go," Manuela said, as she got up naked, leaving her fantasy partner inside the bed.
The young Parisian student followed her university professor with her eyes, who still had a beautiful figure despite having passed forty. Her waist was narrow, her buttocks kept part of the firmness she always had and her breasts showed stretch marks that indicated her date with life.
Manuela stopped by the bedroom locker where she was struck by the Life tobacco pack that her little friend smoked. Curiosity made him without thinking take one of those cigarettes and light it with a long, deep drag.
"You told me you didn't smoke," said the student with a heavy French accent.
Manuela exhaled a long smoky sigh over the ash end and without looking at the girl answered.
"This shit for girls doesn't taste like anything." Get dressed, you have to go, ”he finished, crumbling the cigar on the glass ashtray.
For some time now, Manuela had lost interest in loving people's souls, in getting involved in anyone's life. All she was looking for was a moment of pleasure that would make her feel alive, if only for an instant. Janette, the student he met in the lab, was the perfect fit.
Her daughter's adolescence was being tougher than she thought. She was tired of always going against the current. Exhausted from having to be the best. She was no longer the young woman who came to the capital in search of adventure. No, not anymore.

When Manuela found herself alone, her steps led her to the bathroom where she disdainfully removed the silk robe that was crumpled on the floor. He approached the mirror and resting both hands on the sink, he observed himself. He looked at her graying hair, her cheekbones, her wrinkles and her eyes, being there where she left her attention, in those two blue spheres where she began to navigate, prey to the memories of what one day she was. He was seen in his homeland playing with his brother. He remembered when he tearfully said goodbye to his mother. Also everything she had been able to achieve and how she had to earn respect for the mere fact of being a woman. In spite of everything she felt alone. Alone and invisible.
Reality came to that bathroom again when Fragile began to play on the radio. He wasn't sure why, but that song reminded him too much of his lost brother. Without realizing it, she stroked the scar on her left cheek.
It was her tears that now blurred the reflection she saw in the glass. With more regret than sanity, Manuela struck the mirror with her closed fist, which immediately turned into cobwebs of broken threads. A heartrending scream emptied his soul and made him lose strength and control of his legs, being in a wreck next to the silk robe. Blood dripped between her fingers, although what Manuela needed was to cry the grief she carried inside. The pain. Her courage kept for so long, hugging herself.
After watching over that mourning of entrenched feelings, she told herself that she would never be a slave to that image that she always tried to offer. From that moment he would have nothing to prove to the world.
After wiping off the dried blood and covering the cuts with mercromine, she went to the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of brandy, grabbed a small purse that was full of souvenirs, and crossed the room free of clothes and regrets. He passed by that bookstore that had seen several changes and, leaving the empty glass on the table, opened with both hands the window that would restore his freedom. She peeked out without caring that people saw her naked body and without a doubt she turned the purse, letting the dried petals and flowers that she had kept for so long at last to fly free, as she felt free now. He filled his lungs with air and said.
—Big things begin by taking small steps ... so Manuela walks. Walk and don't look back.

Óscar Cerezo

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