Waltz of Words, Night of Confessions

With his thirty-one teeth, in violet ink, Nal sets about his hellish task. He's going to write a love letter to the murderer of his mother. It's madness waiting to happen, no doubt. The madness that paces the cobblestone streets of the mind. His mother, the she-wolf who once trampled him like a worm, is no longer there, no longer there... Exterminated, liquidated, and Nal, he's going to thank her, the reaper. We don't want a mother like that in churches or cemeteries, even the graves would have protested.

Nal's mother had that cruel, ferocious smile that tears at your soul and freezes your blood. She loved to dominate him, humiliate him, crush him. A spider that sucks every last drop out of your life. With her sharp words, she decapitated his self-esteem, his esteem, without a moment's remorse or hesitation. And Nal always let her do it to him, even though he was a man with a beating, suffering heart...

He trembled, the wretch, in front of his blank sheet of paper. It was like a big open mouth, waiting for words, phrases, betrayals. Nal took up his pen, a violet ink pen, a trifle derisory, but it was his weapon, his courage, his cry. He drew the first lines, the first words, like a prayer for the assassin, for liberation.

"Thank you," he began, his trembling hand letting the ink run across the paper. The word was ugly, grimacing, but it had to be said. Words had to be put to this monstrosity, this weirdness. "Thank you," he wrote, and the word screamed out his pain, his liberation, his relief. A mother like that was a nightmare, a torment, a curse.

Nal wrote his letter, his face as white as chalk, his heart as heavy as lead. There are stories we don't tell, truths we don't reveal. And yet here he is, Nal, writing, confessing, thanking death. A son thanking his mother's murderer is not natural, not human. It's the horror of fate, the absurdity of the world. And this is the beginning of Nal's story.

Then came the dance of words, the whirlwind of memories that went round and round in Nal's noggin. Her mother, with her airs of duchess, her words that nailed you in the beak, her viper's eyes... She knew how to humiliate, she knew how to hurt, with her sharp tongue and her twisted mind.

And Nal, in his writing, in the trace of ink, let himself go, let himself overflow. He wrote down the humiliations, the acerbic phrases, the bullying that had befallen him, the wounds in his soul that would never heal. He wrote to exorcise, to vomit out the ugliness, the violence. He wrote to free himself, to breathe.

The paper drank the ink, greedy, gluttonous, each word like a confession, an absolution. "You killed her," Nal wrote, "And I felt a relief. A breath of fresh air in this cesspool of humiliation. It was as if you'd torn off the chains, delivered me from this torment." And every word, every sentence, was a tear, a spasm, a catharsis. A declaration of love to the murderer, to liberation, to life.

He was laying himself bare, Nal, revealing his soul, his spirit, his bruised heart. A letter that revealed the suffering, the horror, the inhumanity. A letter crying out for injustice, monstrosity and freedom. A letter from a son to his mother's murderer, an aberration, a quirk of existence. And yet, it was his truth, his reality, his story.

The purple ink continued to flow, covering the paper with its raw truth, its horrible reality. And Nal, he wrote, he wrote, non-stop, without rest, until the last drop of ink had stopped flowing, until the last emotion had been purged, until the last truth had been revealed.

Finally, once the ink and the rancor had been wrung out, Nal undertook the last dance of his pen, the final lap on this paper of confession. He wrote the end, the epilogue to this unthinkable correspondence, a finale to make sense of this madness, to bring this macabre spectacle to a close.

"I thank you," he traced, words vibrating with genuine sorrow, "I thank you for ridding me of this monster that was eating away at me. You are my liberator, you are my escape." Every word, every sentence, a tear, a cry, a pain. A missive to his mother's murderer, an aberration, an anomaly, a negation of all morality.

His name, Nal, he wrote at the bottom of the page, a final stroke of the pen, a conclusion to this senseless rebellion. A love letter to his mother's murderer, a desecration, a transgression, a denial of all that is human. But it was his story, his reality, his outlet.

And Nal, the damned, folded this letter, like a cursed relic of his liberation, of his truth. He held it in his hand, heavy with his words, his story, his monstrosity.

Then, Nal, the night owl, went out into the paleness of the night. The sleeping city was his silent witness. He contemplated his letter, this burden of paper, this piece of his soul. He held it at arm's length for a moment, as if offering it to the stars, then let it go. Carried away by the wind, the letter twirled in the night, disappearing into the shadows, a confession without an addressee, a truth without judgment.

A missive to her mother's murderer, swept away by the wind, an absurdity, a monstrosity, a liberation. Nal, there under the starry sky, inhaled the fresh night air and, for the first time in an eternity, felt a certain lightness, a certain liberation, a certain life.