I remember how I used to play under the table. Someone had given me a constructor, markers and a scrap paper, and a picture book, my favorite. I also remember how my father undressed and slipped into the bed with her. He liked doing it while I was around but, luckily, I remember none of it, maybe because I don’t want to. If I wanted to, I could probably make the revolting memories come back to me. They would probably feed my hatred, but I have no such feelings.
Just recently I learned that my father will not be coming to see me as often as I wanted him to; that those gifts packed in clear plastic bags are all bought in a hurry, without too much choosing; that the handwriting on the few postcards that he had sent me is actually a woman’s handwriting, and that every visit to his mother in the town where he was born, will cost me dearly.
I could not love that woman. She wouldn’t let me do it herself. She took care of me unwillingly. A child could always feel that. She had a roomy two floor house with a pine grove in front. I played outside until late, then went inside, climbing the squeaky stairs to my cold bedroom. I slept alone, and I was afraid of the dark. Sometimes I had nightmares. I was scared by the smell of dust and memories, of my grandfather’s portraits. But most of all I feared the Puss in Boots. The large doll left in the bedroom, who kept me from leaving my bed in the mornings, lying under the sheets, my hands ice-cold, my heart racing. The hours passed, and I patiently waited someone to remember about me, to see if I’m awake, whether I hadn’t run away. I would have gladly welcomed anyone, as long as they helped me get out of the bedroom, but no one came and my bladder was starting to hurt from the pressure. Nobody remembered to call me for breakfast, I felt like peeing up to a point that I thought I was going to do it in the bed, while the silence was getting thicker and thicker … No sound could get through the massive brick walls and the windows, only the light could penetrate them, just to perish from the lack of love. Spacious rural house, which digested you in its stomach. The image of loneliness, forever remaining with me.
© Sabina Marinova