Hello everyone,
few weeks ago I said I was going to write some reviews for a friend who is setting up a military-themed website. Finally and is almost ready, so here I leave the link in case you want to take a look:
http://war-combat.com/
In another vein, I have given a big push my current novel and I have written about 75%, I think in a month or so complete it will achieve, if all goes well and the reviews of the UNED not distract me too much. And although I do not expect to see the light easily, here are the prologue for your enjoyment. Greetings
FOREWORD I should be scared. However, the feeling in my insides is deception.
Actually the fault is not mine. We see so many movies and television cheap just convinced that what the screens show a true reflection of reality. Therefore, the interrogation room that gave me more pity than fear. I expected a bright room with a large mirror that occupied an entire wall as a large window on the suspect to transmit the accuser look invisible half dozen detectives.
To my surprise, the room that you could almost waited patiently with his arms covered. The green layer of paint covering walls showed many cracks that sounded like a huge spider web, obscured by the passage of time. The famous glass mirror by which the police could see inside the room without being seen was only three or four inches of width, so that if two people want to look at while most should do it over the shoulder another. In those circumstances, respect and fear me as I reach the police were gone in minutes.
And despite this, you should be scared.
The door opened, emitting a dull snap that heralded the emergence of the inspector. With the same coolness he had shown in our first meeting, Detective Arteaga walked into the room, slamming the door behind him. He sat on the empty chair opposite me and placed a thin manila folder on the table. Without a word, drew several pictures of the cabinet and placed them next to each other on the cold surface. All of them showed a dead person, and all were known to me. Then I looked in silence, though his eyes seemed to say: 'now I know that you've killed'
kept his gaze for a moment, deliberately ignoring the macabre pictures that separated us, relaxing the muscles of the face to avoid the My face may betray feelings who crowded inside. Finally, the detective sighed, allowing his lips curled into a smile.
- What if we started at the beginning? - Said.
For answer, I just raise both eyebrows in a gesture of indifference. For the trust that showed their eyes, the detective seemed to assume that the whole affair had a clear beginning, a self-revealing moment in time, as the kick that marks the beginning of a career. And what's more important that home, to find a reason why a normal man comes to sit a day in an interrogation room as a suspect in several murders.
My name is José María Fernández, and I am one of the millions of insignificant people who populate Madrid. Until recently, my life would not have served to fill even a single paragraph. Married with two children, worked as an accountant in a multinational company based in Spain. My forty-six years that brief sentence enclosed all my life, a life without emotions, smooth, a normal life. In fact, I remember having experienced any unusual experience. I have not saved anyone's life nor have I ever been in danger of losing mine. I have fought in wars, or entered burning buildings, even a child during the transition. I have always exercised a trade away from any violence or complication other than the continuing struggle with bosses and coworkers. If a dictionary for the word 'normal' next to it you would find a picture of me. Even my appearance is monotonous. I am not tall nor short, neither handsome nor ugly, neither fat nor thin. Basically I'm the typical middle-aged balding and incipient stomach caused by a sedentary lifestyle. Brown eyes, brown hair ... the last thing I expect when I walk down the street is that someone to notice me.
Perhaps this is why, when the detective launched into the air his words I found difficult to recall a moment that could put the name of principle. Actually, yes was a key moment, a signal. It was the crack of dusk that I marked the path. But my story would be pointless to start talking about that specific event, because there are many factors that influence up to that point and, above all, what happened next. To understand the events that led me to this narrow interrogation room must go back, until the time when I'm not different from any other time in my life was still dull and vulgar.
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