The Writing on The Wall

CONTENT WARNING: MENTION OF CHILD ABUSE AND SUICIDE

She kept on writing. Soft pencil followed the movement of her right hand and arm in unison with the universe. Her blonde hair fell in rustling cascades over her dainty shoulders, sweeping away all the dust hovering in the warmth of the sunny day.

She got me used to describing every emotion with words. Whenever she spoke, they floated in the air like colourful ribbons suspended between the trees in the forest, each colour representing a different feeling. I sensed the red fury of her ire. An orange bursting with excitement or anxiety. Dark blue stripes associated with low mood tangled in her tiny fingers like blueberries picked by presumptuous locals. Every time she managed to overcome it, I was green with envy and it has never left me indifferent.

One day this fine line was cut and I no longer knew her. I couldn't get into her soul and I could never figure out what was causing it. I waited and waited, but the longer it went on, the more my patience wore thin. And finally, she decided to open up. Just like that. Although not in the traditional way. What was the reason for this? I wasn't entirely sure.

She was writing and I was reading at the same time. They were words full of pain and promise, horror and humility, but also something indescribable, something I never knew about her and could never guess. How could I if no signs had ever been presented to me in the flesh? So, excuse the expression, I was curious.

I am the daughter of a paedophile.

I dropped my coffee cup on the marble floor. The cleaner will have to deal with it later. I couldn't take my eyes off the board.

I found out when I was eight. Then Daddy found me a friend to play with. This was no ordinary friend. She was his lover.

The story continued, pushed forward by her smooth hand.

When I was a kid, we were flotsam and jetsam. Our steps often led from one village to another. Daddy must have been afraid of being found out. Strangely enough, he was never afraid of me knowing his little secret.

I used to play with dolls behind the house. I remember that I liked playing kitchen with them. I was their mother; I cooked and washed the dishes. One day she came over. My little friend surprised me from behind like a thief and knocked over the wooden board on which I had spread my miniature pots and pans. She said, "You will never be a mother because I am one." She was only a few years older than me, so not old enough to be anything other than my contemporary. When she decided she would never be the one, I felt a shiver and a bead of sweat roll down my spine. Fortunately, she was never able to notice it.

She scribbled down with such haste that I could barely decipher the individual syllables that made up the words. They severely dulled the white board, like poorly applied makeup. They circled in all directions until she had a complete grip on them again.

One day I asked Daddy where Mummy was. He said she was with the angels, but she was watching me. Whenever I was alone, I would talk to her and ask if she could take me to her place, away from Daddy. I wasn't sure if she could hear me, so I always whispered because ghosts don't require shouting. I think only mouthing would work perfectly because they know our thoughts in advance anyway.

When we moved to another village the following spring (we always moved in the spring for some reason. I didn't know why then), the girl was no longer with us. When I asked Daddy where Sara was, he said she was singing songs with Mummy. I suspected then that something must be wrong, but I didn't dare say it. Apart from my school friends, Daddy was the only person I knew and the only one who was there for me all the time.

She needed to catch her breath. Her hands were shaking and she could barely stand, but I knew she had to write it. For her, for me, and now even for her Daddy.

One spring it was different. There were no new girls around and Daddy was getting impatient. I never made him angry, yet he looked at me with venomous eyes. I had no idea what caused his change in habits and emotions. I found out later that summer. I was twelve years old.

Whenever winter ended, he drowned them in the lake or in the river. After that, it was no longer possible to stay in the same place. He told others he had to travel to find a job. But it became increasingly suspicious that he had to change jobs with a little girl in his arms. Me.

Social services did research and lots of tests, but didn't tell me the whole truth. I knew why. I was still a minor.

On my sixteenth birthday, they sent a lady over and she told me in my room upstairs in the foster home that I was no longer a virgin. They found out when he was arrested, of course, but I was too young to know. I wasn't surprised, but I didn't remember anything either. It must have happened when I was still young enough to erase it from my memory. In Daddy’s eyes, other girls were supposed to replace me.

They then took him away as a dangerous man whom I was never allowed to visit. I never wanted either, but since I never remember any acts of violence on his part, he will remain in my memory as a good man. Such is the privilege of a child. I know I shouldn't arbitrarily acquit him, but it's the only way I can keep my life together. I can save my life for us. He died in his cell before I turned eighteen and I was allowed to meet him again. He committed suicide.

She was exhausted. She still held the pencil in her right hand, still touching the board, but there was no empty space on it. The entire room was taken up by her unspoken, written words. There was no need for more.

I grabbed her hand and she slumped into my arms.

Leaning on my shoulder, she left the classroom as if it was her former life. She seemed to be free from it for good.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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