Todos os capítulos de Remember me naked: Capítulo 211 - Capítulo 220

CassandreThe door opens to a room abandoned by time. Peeling wallpaper, a lampshade yellowed like an old smile, and the carpet, if we can call this worn fabric a carpet, bears the imprint of thousands of awkward comings and goings. The place smells of cigarette smoke and cheap laundry detergent, a scent that seems to apologize for existing.Raphaël is already there, perched on the edge of the bed, an extinguished cigarette between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the window where the fine rain draws unreadable maps on the glass. He looks up when I enter; his face, that profile I know like one knows a weakness, breaks into a smile that waits only to shatter.— Cassandre, he whispers, as if saying my name too loudly might wake the dead.I close the door behind me without hurrying, letting the slam resonate like a final punctuation mark. His presence reaches me before he speaks: the scent of his skin, the warmth contained in his shoulders, this way he stands between submission and flight.

LyraThe water is ice-cold, heavier than the night. It envelops me with the slowness of a beast, first seizing my ankles, then my thighs, and every movement becomes a struggle, a tear. I flail my arms, but my gestures are mere remnants of swimming. My muscles burn like embers, my lungs scream. The sea surrounds me, vast and faceless, like a dark belly gradually swallowing me.The rope is gone. The bridge is gone. Kassandra is just a beam of light above me, somewhere, far away. The world has reduced itself to the water and me, to this cold that splits my flesh open, to this salt that invades everywhere, even into my memories.I swallow a first gulp of water. It is bitter, metallic, like blood. It scratches at my throat and sinks into my lungs with the slowness of poison. I cough, but the sea immediately returns, penetrating, insisting, clinging to me like invisible hands. I am still swimming, I strike the water, but my gestures are those of a defeated puppet, a marionette whose strings

AlexandreI spring up suddenly.Air catches in my throat, violent, burning, as if I swallowed fire. My lungs constrict. For a moment, I think I'm going to die of asphyxiation. The cry that escapes me is anything but human, hoarse, strangled, wrenched from the depths of my chest.At first, I see nothing. Darkness envelops me entirely, heavy, dense, almost alive. It pulses around me as if it breathes. The silence is so thick it pierces my eardrums.I remain still, gasping, my heart pounding against my ribs like a hammer. My fingers grip the sheet. It is soaked. My whole body glistens with sweat. My neck, my temples, my wrists, everything is dripping. The mattress beneath me is warm, almost feverish, as if it holds the trace of the nightmare.I run a hand over my face. My skin is icy, but my palm burns. This contrast sends a shiver down my spine. Sweat trickles down into my mouth; it tastes of salt and metal.I slowly turn my head to the left. The other side of the bed. Empty. Silent. Th

CassandreI take notes, I arrange meetings, I set priorities. Everything is timed. The calendar is a tool, not a master. I have planned screens, controlled witnesses, and soft threats—those threats that don the guise of virtue and force the guilty to betray themselves. In this mechanism, Lyra will become more than a name: she will be the key that unlocks the vault.My fingers rest on a sealed envelope. Inside, a list: names I must approach, mistakes to provoke, friendships to corrupt. Among them, an aging notary, loyal to his own interests; a journalist seeking redemption; a family friend who cannot stand humiliation. Unlikely axes. This is the strength of the plan: it exploits human pettiness.I find myself imagining Raphaël on the other side of the chessboard, useful as a diversion, dangerous as a witness. If tomorrow he strays and begins to speak too loudly, he will evaporate without a sound. That’s why I made him leave. To protect him from himself and to protect my secret for as lo

AlexandreI no longer know what day it is. Maybe Monday. Maybe another. Here, the days no longer exist. There is only the rain, the cold, and the silence. I returned from the forest at dawn. My clothes soaked, my hands covered in mud. I let the lamp fall to the ground, and I collapsed in the hallway. I don't remember how long I stayed there—an hour, a day, an eternity. When I got up, it was daylight. A gray day, without sun, like all the others. The house was freezing. I lit the fire. The flames took time to catch, as if they too hesitated to live. I sat in front of the fireplace, my face in my hands. And suddenly, it all came at once. Not thoughts, no. Tears. Sobs. Spasms. I cried like a child. Without shame. Without restraint. The kind of crying that one thought impossible, that one doesn’t allow oneself. Those that tear the throat and heart in the same breath. I screamed her name. I howled it. Again and again. As if repeating it could bring her