At first, I did not take notice of those screams creeping into the quiet room I was in. Then, when they made themselves audible in my consciousness, I thought they were the screams of an ailing woman. When the screams kept going on for too long, I realized that they belonged to a cat! “Ah, is it the mating season already?” I asked myself in astonishment. I shook my head and tried to concentrate in the book lying in my lap. The screams would not stop. I tried to build a mental, soundproof barrier between me and them but they penetrated it as if they were a drill ruthlessly penetrating my skull. I read in a loud voice: “Above all, of course, he’s like the Gothic Villain of the drama in his secret sin and his remorse, the crushing agony of which drives him all through the play, and which makes him …” I stopped when I realized that I was not following what I was reading. I raised my eyes off the book, looked towards the curtains, and contemplated the screams. She is calling for a mate, for love. But why the screams sound that terrifying and horrible … like screams of death?! Screams of passion and death! The thought stroke me and endless threads of questions started to weave an overwhelming web around my exhausted mind: can they reproduce in this shrouded atmosphere? Can life spring from death? Would her screams be silenced when he comes or would they turn into anguished screams of a tormented, ever-hungry soul?
I snatched the book and almost ran out of the room in frightened steps, avoiding thinking of the answers, and escaping those piercing screams of passion and death.