My past
For a moment, I thought I was happy.
I thought I had handled it all pretty well. No one had ever noticed a thing, not during my deepest depression nor during my darkest hour. The blood had been washed off my hands. I still had friends. I had a healthy relationship with a woman I loved. I was able to control myself, my actions and my emotions. I felt... normal. Satisfied. Perhaps I even had an illusion of happiness.
I cannot say at which point everything started to go wrong. When the great invisible hand stopped controlling my world and let it sink in chaos. The same thing it had done six months ago. I remember that it was cold. Not cold as a general winter, but cold as the space between worlds. I felt I wasn't the only one who was cold. Everyone were. And it was going to get worse.
I fell in love with another woman. Or a girl, whichever you are happier with. She was everything my companion was not. No matter how hard I tried, I could not tell what harmony she could give me only with her mere existence. Maybe it was that time I realised that things were going straight towards Hell. And do not misunderstand me, I do not blame her for it, nor anyone else but me. Perhaps she was one of those persons who gave me the power to live this far, and write my tale.
Perhaps she got fond of me, too. I never had the time to realise it. It was the shortest Autumn of my entire life. We had fun. I got used to her presence. We even kissed a few times. It should've felt wrong, but it didn't. It never did.
I'm blabbering, sorry. All this is irrelevant. Or perhaps not irrelevant. Maybe this is the prelude for the later events. In that case, I must tell everything and leave nothing untold. The story is not about a girl, or girls, or a baby, or any certain event. This is a story of my life, or so I would presume.
Back to the story. Our romance, however, was short, like a flame that burnt too brightly and got extinguished quick. And as the mortal eye gets accustomed to the flame, it still sees it burning bright after there is nothing more than smoke. For a time. And this was the beginning of my depression, my journey through misery and uncontrolled self-pity, which I had hated and loathed when I was... well, sane.
You do not know what powers and emotions drove me to the next decision. Neither did I. The events of the last summer were haunting in the background, but they were never real to me. I never could have imagined that they were the reason for my irrational and childish behaviour. The events. I had not told them to anyone at this point. If you have the will to read forward, I will reveal everything, although none of you will believe it is true. And how could I blame you? It is better if you do not believe it. For both of us.
After I woke up to the reality and realised I could never kindle that flame back to life again, I felt alone. The coldness struck, but I didn't know why. I lived with, hoping it would go away. The voices of my self-pity warned me that I could never make anyone happy, only hurt people. At that time, it seemed so correct. It was about to change, but change is never constant.
I met another girl. I had known her for a long time, as a good friend, but only when she comforted me for days (or was it weeks?) because of my previous love (or affection? Crush? Irrational emotion made by misguided chemicals in my brain?) I really met her. Got known to her, accustomed to her naturalness and sympathetic character. I promised myself I would not do the same mistakes I had done in the past: fall in love, attach or let the flame burn too quickly.
I did it anyway. All three basic mistakes. And I paid for it, I think.
She naturally left me for another man. What could I offer her? She gave me happiness, passion, sympathy, comfort, anything I could ever want. I couldn't offer her anything. I could only suffocate her with my irrationality and depression. I cannot blame her. I still miss her. Probably more than any other woman of my life.
This story does not include everything I experienced. Some of it I have forgotten, some of it I do not want to tell, some of it is irrelative. That is why the aim of this story is not to describe my feelings at any given time, but more likely to attempt to explain my actions.
I thought I was going insane. Some agreed with me. For some, I was able to hide my feelings.
And for her, I did the worse thing I could've done. I told her nothing, but something else forced me to tell something. I didn't want it to go that way.
I got a message from her. A text-message, that is, to my cellular phone. "What did you to him?", it asked. And everything, EVERYTHING, came back to my mind. The last summer. Of course I couldn't tell her. She didn't know, and I didn't want her to know. She would have hated me for that.
"In how many pieces he was?", she asked me then. So she knew. I didn't know how. I wasn't able to contemplate rationally at that point. "Six", I answered.
"Was it you?" "I don't know."
"Who was with you?" "I can't remember."
"What is it doing to you know?" "It's screaming."
Then, unexpectedly, she asked, worried: "Who is screaming?"
And I told her everything. I shouldn't have.
I don't remember much of it. Call it a psychological firewall or something of that sort. I wasn't drunk or in drugs. I hadn't taken anything, as far as I can remember. The first memory I have is the shovel in my hand. I was in a forest, and it was dark. Someone was behind me, but I can't remember who. Maybe there were more people, but I can't remember. I was digging. First I couldn't remember or understand why, but I kept going.
The hole got deeper. And deeper. I didn't know that it was already too deep, I just kept going. I already knew why I was digging it. I wanted it to be deep, so know one could find it.
I must have dug for hours, but finally the hole was done. I grabbed the plastic bag beside me, turned it upwards and emptied its contents to the hole.
I do not know why I did that. I could have just thrown the bag in. The pieces of the baby fell in, one by one. One of the legs got stuck to the grip of the bag, and I had to shake it away.
Six pieces. Both legs, both arms, the head and the middle section. I didn't know whether it was a boy or a girl, the genitalia was covered in blood.
They were at the bottom of the hole, in disorder and messy. For some reason I laid on the ground and reached my hand to the hole. I arranged the pieces in order, so that it didn't look just like a pile of meat. It looked like a baby.
I had to cover it of course.
Then blackness. I can't remember how I got to the forest, or out of there. I don't know whose baby it had been (mine?) or who had killed it (me?) or why I had to bury it. The next thing I remember was that I was walking in a park, in confusion, trying to find a place where I could wash my hands. I had blood and dirt on them.
You don't have to believe any of this. Still I can promise you, that it is all true.
And now, those events have come back to my mind. Maybe they never left.
But now, I can hear the baby again. It's crying. It's cold. I buried it too deep. It's in six parts and it's too fucking cold.
I don't know what to do. I can't remember where I buried it.
It's too deep.
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Tositarina.