“Sometimes I hear your voice... It's in the murmur of the wind that travels among the leaves, sliding down from the tree tops, in the merry chirping of the birds... But now, more and more often, I hear it right behind me. At times I hear it call my name so loud that I shudder, startled. I spin around, hoping to see your face, but all I see is an undisturbed landscape.”
Another entry in my diary: the words are different, but the thoughts are always the same. I was about to add: 'I miss you so much, I can't live without you', but my pen stopped, drawing a final point. It wouldn't be true. If I'm still alive – it means I can go on, no matter how hard this ordeal might be.
Someone wise once said that childhood is the time of powerlessness. My childhood years were different: I could always decide which way to go, who to mix with, who to love. But sometimes a mere chance becomes the invincible obstacle that smashes all freedom of choice to pieces, leaving you absolutely unable to change anything.
'I love you' – I whispered to my diary, something much more than just a notepad full of notes. My confession box, the outlet for my tears, the place where I could talk to him.
From the look of this notepad one could easily tell that it had been moved from bag to bag numerous times; its once snow-white pages survived quite a few coffee spills and countless tears. I put it aside and searched my backpack for a fresh raisin roll bought in a nearby coffee shop a couple hours ago. Absent-mindedly I crumbled it at my feet, watching greedy pigeons clutter around the bench and surround me with their feathered, noisy crowd.
It was a perfect spring day, when your soul is singing happily and your body is enjoying warm invigorating air, soaking in the first, not yet ripe sun rays.
A guy and a girl were sitting on a bench in front of me, their arms around each other. In such an early hour there were few people in the park. I always came here before breakfast to contemplate in the quiet, hoping to avoid happy couples. They made me feel uneasy, almost scared. Unfortunately, this time I had nowhere to hide: the sight I had been trying to escape was unraveling right before my eyes. The guy's hands were all over the girl, and they were kissing so hard as if trying to devour each other.
No matter where I went, I faced the same picture everywhere. In spring people don't hesitate to demonstrate their love, express their feelings for each other right in the middle of the street. Some melt at this sight, others feel annoyed, as for me... I just wish I could say or think that such things don't disturb me at all, but it would mean lying to myself.
My hands dropped helplessly onto my knees. As the last bread crumbs fell on the pavement, I ran my fingers over the white ragged scars on my wrist. Over two years have passed, yet they still responded to my touch with a dull pain, as if saying: you will never forget that, no matter how hard you try.
I didn't even try, however those who surrounded me tried their best. There wasn't a single photo reminding me of the past in our apartment – Mom thoroughly collected them all, packed into a box and threw it into the garbage. Dad ripped all my drawings and crushed my almost new pencil-set with a hammer. They did so right before my eyes, with the mercilessness of the Holy Inquisition. Since then my youth became the time of powerlessness.