vineri, 17 iulie 2009

The secret friend


I decided we should talk in English from now on. It is better this way, so my dad don't understand it. You see, I don't speak this language very well, but he doesn't speak it at all. So we are safe: if he hears me I can tell I practise the English, that I memorize staff from the books that mama got for my birthday. So now you have to apologize my English and realize I am only nine years old, Jeremy. And also, one more thing: I will not call you so often by your name, cause I am afraid my dad will learn your name. He keeps telling I have to let you go, because he thinks you are something I invented somehow - probably in my mind.

Once, when I was more little, I tried to say that you come from the outside of me and so you are not my invention, but he gets really upset when he hears another version of his stories. That time he choose the belt, which really, does not hurt that bad, but marks remain on my legs and people ask. People are very curious when it comes to bad things - they want to find out and to talk about it. They even laugh some time, like it make them happy to know another of us is hurt.

They don't see we are the same. Nobody sees we are all together. I am the little monkey that hears and sees everything, Evil included. That's how he calls me some time, my father I mean: little monkey. When he drinks, he tells it throughout his teeth and he gives me the bad eyes. I don't mind, though - or maybe I do, but in a way I got used to it. Now I can accept he doesn't like me, that he is disappointed with me and I am part of his failure.

Now I am a big boy and I don't cry anymore.

How is your father like? You never told me...

Oh, so then you understand...

Where is he now?

Well, I guess it can happen...

I would like to be able to say one day it doesn't matter.

Yes, true. The weather is too beautiful to stay here in this dark living room. Let's go outside, sure.

Mama has one of her migrenes and she does not like to have people around at these times; not even me, which I think I am not just people to her. We can sit on the bench, in front of the house: if she needs me, she could just look out from the window. But I doubt it, I think she is going to stay all day in bed, cause she got one of those pills and this is what happens afterwards: she stays all day long in her bed, covered by all the blankets she finds in the house.

My mama, she is so gentle... no, not gentle. She is very sensitive, I guess: she cries all the time and she sighs like she has a great stone over her chest. I hate that sound - the sound of her problems, eating her inside.

And maybe I am a bad boy for saying this, but I think she likes it this way. Why else always that sound, tens time a day, you know? Like telling me how bad things are and yet not doing anything. I am afraid that I could get to hate that sound, no matter who is doing it, and this is the kind of thing that I guess could cripple your soul. I mean, some day, one could really need my help and they might sigh like my mama to get my attention - but I would hate the sound of it and I would just mind my own business, pretending nothing happened. In this way, I would be an evil monkey. Because we are what we see and what we hear.

And I am so afraid, Jeremy, that one day I will be just that, that I would lose myself to all these voices and images that I try to keep out of my head.

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