Unrepentaint. Impenitenti

The silence was dark around us. I took courage

and opened my eyes, the eyelids: I found his face exactly as I had left him, and he stared at me. Sussultai.

He bent his neck, like that of a rag doll under the force of gravity.

" Leke nosht"she whispered.

And as enchanted by a strange magic, slipped back into sleep, a moment later I wondered what they meant those words.

The continuous monitoring of the victim goes in a

good direction. Is aware of his post-traumatic disorder,

but not of his forgetfulness selective.

Blames as the cause of the problem, the assumption of scopolamine, and if the part has reason, must surely be a part of memories that she refuses to

log in. It is clear from his change and behavioural both in the sphere of sex. If the scopolamine had been the only cause of his loss of memory would manifest symptoms at the psychological level.

It is important to persevere with interviews in case the memory to recover, in such a way as to follow the process and detect the important details. In case you did not had to recall alone it may be necessary to convince her to embark

on a path of psychological or hypnosis to recover memories, with the risk, however, that may increase the adverse effects of the trauma.

Chapter 17

Is there sex after death

The poison of sweetness from the sugar it's still poison.

Davil

We are convinced that there is an elsewhere wonderful is it that awaits us at the end of the race. A place of honor reserved for the good, to those who behave well. Intended that the ordinary humanity of that color never out from the edges.

We speak to the saints and benefactors, men of honour and of other ages who have sacrificed for the country, who have saved the women and children, who have defeated the enemy in the war. We do not believe that for every wrong there is a punishment and that it is a reward for all the times in which we behave properly.

The bad guys are seen as the worst. Make a wrong choice, you take a different road you leave behind the seedy place to come. But what you have committed, no te lo washes away from the hands.

The troublemaker, the unreliable, corrupt,. Those guys so bad to do the envy to the most striking example of the cliché of erotic literature, modern.

They are destined for a place for nothing wonderful. But, at least, make you a rush as you must.

They say certain people, you need to stay away. Whether for road, is when you read a good book. The criticism claims that it to the girls like to read only this, that there are more protagonists of a time, those that you teach values and morals. As if Hamlet had not left to die of love, his Ophelia or Dorian Gray, betrayed friendship and love in exchange for eternal youth.

Chiariamoci, I could never compare myself to these sacred monsters. And yet, I often asked myself how it felt to be a hero and at the same time, the villain of the story.

Maybe I was a cliché too. After believing for too long to be arrived at the end, it was clear that I still had a lot to live. And who knows how many sins yet to be committed.

One thing was certain: among the stars, and the soil there is another sacred

that it is up to people like me. I was already finished. Or rather, I had conducted with ruthless force when I was just a teenager.

Still, I was always been a good kid. My mother told me so ever that I was a dobro momche'.

She is of Bulgarian origin, was born in a poor family and had moved to London at the age of eighteen years. There he had found a job a love.

But if I have to be honest, the memory I have of my father is about as far away there is the concept of affection.

One of the medical examiners the most important of the city, in the money

bahari splashed. The old dr. Newton Crain possessed a castle in Norfolk, inherite from an ancient and noble great-great-aunt, where all the autumns took us on vacation.

Autumn was the season of the hunt. He and my grandfather scoring the boots, took the leash the dogs and, once up on their English thoroughbred, headed into the bush.

Me and mom stayed in the kitchens to prepare pastries, together with the na

for autumn to abandon the grey London and go in search of the wonders hidden in the Hollow Castle.

My mother's name was Mina, and all the times that I read Dracula I thought of her. I was told many stories, when in the evening we sat in front of the fire and waited for the return of my father for di

He told me that in Bulgaria, near Sofia, I had another family. Aunts, uncles, cousins that I waited, if I wanted to go to greet them. And I always wondered why they were not there from us. Our home in London was not very large, but Hollow Castle would have been able to accomm everyone.

She smiled to her tight lips

and answered me in his English a bit awkward: "it is Not so easy, malkoto

And then she would return to tell other stories, the most diverse. I told the headless horseman, every Halloween. Eros and Psyche, all the times that I asked

passed on the passion for Shakespeare, but she loved it

Romeo and Juliet I ran out to Macbeth.

She loved to read and when I was born I had to do just that: my father earned enough to keep the entire family, and so she had left her job as soon as she was pregnant of me. Then, at the age of thirteen years, lost my grandfather, my father's father. His legacy was more than enough to convince my father to retire in advance, despite being one of the professional most popular in its field.

Finished the last case to which he had been called to work, he sealed the last folder, and we sold the house in London and moved to Norfolk.

I was sure that there was the most beautiful thing about this, to live every day of the year in the place I loved. Maybe I should make new friends at school, but in the evening I'd come back home and I found my mother in front of the fire on, ready to tell me what I missed during the day.

And for a while it worked. My father invited all of the dear friends with whom to go hunting and I came back from school, did homework, and then I spent time with my mama.

It lasted for a fall only. The winter came, and my father was left alone. All his colleagues were not interested in hunting out of season and the foxes in the surroundings were less and less, and becoming more and more difficult to hunt.

I was not made for hunting. But it made the years of the twenty-one in December, so many years before, dr. Crain's decided to make me a gift and take me to my first bar.

"It is a fighter from exhaustion" was the first thing he explained to me, while he prepared the horses. Meanwhile, I sistemavo the quiver on his shoulders. "Those not using them," h the way a black fox".

In

all those years had taught me many things, among which to mount a horse and archery. It had bee Until i saw with my own eyes, as the death manages to creep in life. The hunting was his outlet for all of those bodies, lifeless and those stories that are horrifying that he had had to analyse.