Mihaela Mateescu – Page 4

My Brother – because he deserves to be given credit for his contribution to my development

This is long overdue. I don’t talk much about my brother nowadays, our relationship died a few years ago. I’ve made my peace with it, although I do wonder from time to time if he’s ok and if his life is going according to his dreams and hopes (I seriously doubt it). I’m not sure what would have to happen for me to ever talk to him again… EVER. But that doesn’t mean I should ignore him as if he never existed at all. Because he did exist, very much indeed, during my childhood. During those times when I didn’t have a father anymore, when I needed protection, when I needed my fears chased away and my sled pulled through the snow, when I made mistakes and needed help hiding them from my mother, when I got good grades and wanted to brag (because he never did), when I needed to escape and used his music to do it over and over again, he did exist.

Imagine a bunch of sailors playing poker while waiting to hear if they would travel anywhere or go home for a while. They’re drinking whiskey and they’re getting loud, they’re cussing and wishing some of the wives and kids weren’t there so they could REALLY cuss like the sailors they are. Some of them run out of money or things to bet, my father wants to keep playing. One sailor bets an old piano he had found somewhere and wants to get rid of because it made all this “infernal noise”. My father wins it. Two hours later, four sailors are helping my father drag a piano up two flights of stairs (if you know anything about communist buildings, you’d know how damn difficult that is), all the way to my brother’s room. My brother is ecstatic. He has never touched a piano before but somehow knows this is his destiny. He waits patiently for the sailors to set the piano down, its skeleton more like, because some pieces that could be taken apart were, to make it a little lighter. He waits until they all go to the living-room to celebrate with more whiskey and additional poker, because the night is far from over. I’m in the middle of all this, about four years old, not really knowing what’s going on but excited because all my father’s friends adore me and play with me and intermittently proclaim “You’re just too cute!”

And then there’s music. Everyone stops what they’re doing because no one is yet sure that’s what we’re hearing. After a few moments of deep silence, that is definitely music. My parents look at each other: Where is that coming from? He doesn’t know how to play the piano! We go back to my brother’s room and watch him play while standing up in front of the skeleton. His fingers are fighting each other to reach the keys, it is plenty obvious he doesn’t know the proper way of holding his hands over the keyboard, his wrists are so inflexible that he’s having a hard time with it, but he’s playing. He’s playing something no one has heard before, something eerie and burning, scary and inviting at the same time. It doesn’t have a name, and it would stay that way. We would later refer to it as “the song you played the first time”. We watch him play for a while, and listen in wonder, and try to figure out where and when and how this was born. My brother doesn’t know himself. He was never able to explain it. He kept playing while everyone left him alone. It was obvious he didn’t care about the outside world at that point. He was lost in his imaginary world, submissive to the piano in a way no one knew he was capable of, completely entrenched and with no obvious desire to do anything else. He was 13.

We lost him after that, to a world of music he couldn’t live without anymore. He’d play for hours, learning on his own, discovering classical pieces one at a time, with the hunger of the man deprived for years, with a stubbornness no one knew a human being could possess, with intention and intensity, as if his life depended on it. He forgot to play with me, to pull pranks, to argue as a proper teenager compulsively does, to study anything in school, to play with his friends. Instead, his friends would gather in front of our building, under our apartment’s balcony, to tease him and tempt him with worldly adventures. They quit that and started listening after a while. My brother was lost to them as well.

I grew up listening to him and witnessing his wars with music. His tears when he couldn’t understand the technicality of a piece, his exhaustion after playing ten hours a day, my mom’s yelling because he missed school again, his refusal to stop until he was the master of the piece and could control it and change it to fit his whims. He’d play different rhythms based on the time of day. Allegrissimo for mornings, to wake everyone up and urge them to start living, andante for lunch time, so we could slow down a bit and enjoy some good home-cooked meals, adagio to lento for afternoons, to help wind down and settle in, and grave for nights, to accompany the night sky and induce sleep. He played the Moonlight Sonata for me again and again, sometimes in the dark while stars were the only emissaries for light. He played other people’s music until he realized he could make his own. It was only then that the magic really started. He turned his dreams into music. He would wake up in the middle of the night, write the notes on a piece of paper half asleep, then play it for us in the morning. I lost count of how many times I cried because of his music. I lost count of how many times I hated him for being so devilishly gifted. I lost count of how many times I heard people mention him, but not me, in casual conversations. I disappeared for a long time. His star was too bright for anyone to miss it, and I didn’t matter anymore. I was jealous and bitter, and started thinking that, if I could play the piano too, maybe people would talk to me again. When I tried to learn, everyone made fun of me. My mother said: “You just don’t have the gift, sweetie, you need to stick to your books”. She wasn’t mean about it, but still, that’s how I perceived it. And I hated him even more. At the same time, his magic was too powerful, his music too much like that of sirens, alluring and deceiving, messing with your head and making you think unspeakable things. I could never get enough of it. I pleaded and begged, and he would play for me again. I would fall asleep on his bed, writing stories in my head, guided by the notes emanating from his hands, fooled by emotions I didn’t know existed.

The magic stopped abruptly when I was in high-school and he got married. His wife took him away from us, literally. She was so afraid and insecure that she prohibited him from even coming to visit. He would wake up at four in the morning to come have coffee with my mom, because his wife always slept late and it was the only way for her to not know he came to see us. He never played for me again. It broke my heart, and I don’t think that can ever be fixed. All I have now are the memories that come flooding whenever I hear a classical piece played by someone else. I listen and say to myself You’re playing it wrong, that section needs to be softer. I miss his magic, and I’m infinitely grateful that I got to be a part of it for a while even if no one paid attention to me. I now understand why. But the magic is still gone, and I feel deprived.

The Ksenia Anske Model

“You know why I write? Because paper can’t tell me to SHUT UP.” – K. A.

In an effort to start promoting my writing a bit more (I have been lazy with it lately, mostly because I have no idea what I’m doing), I recently joined Twitter and started following a bunch of random names as they appeared in my thread (until I realized you can actually search for topics that interest you). One of the people I followed this way is a writer by the name of Ksenia Anske (she’s Russian, lives in Seattle). Her tweets got me hooked right away, and I started paying more attention to what she has to say overall. Then I visited her full profile and laughed out loud while reading her other and older posts. Then I ended up on her blog, and WOW, talk about mind blown! The way she uses the English language puts me to shame. I’ve always thought I was good at writing, but this girl is unbelievable and I would urge ANYONE with a little bit of brain function to go to her blog and REALLY READ it (www.kseniaanske.com). She’s inspiring to me, and her words got me excited about writing again. She’s insightful, witty, unexpectedly honest, and funny… all in one… You can just read her passion, it emanates from every word and envelops you so insidiously that you don’t realize it until you stop reading and ponder. Wow. Where have I been until now? Damn, my writing is bad. Oh my, so much more to learn. Maybe I should just quit, I’ll never be this good. Why am I crying? This is too much. I have to write a story now.

Anyways, Ms. Ksenia is giving away her writing for free, although people who want to support her can also buy her books on Amazon, for example, or donate to keep her writing. I’m including this link to the specific article about it (http://www.kseniaanske.com/blog/2014/5/24/what-happens-to-book-sales-if-your-books-are-free), and I’m including a short fragment here, because I couldn’t say it any better (and I just like the way she puts it):

“This is the lesson I learned, through all this fear and trepidation. Like I said in the previous blog post, I still finance myself via savings and occasional consulting gigs, but I will keep giving my art away for free, because it’s what I believe in. I believe in sharing love, and my art is my manifestation of love. I love you, and I want you to have what I can give. If you want to give back, please do. If not, I’m happy because I gave. Nothing else matters, really. I don’t know when I’ll be dead. Just reading the news today, the news of another horrendous shooting, made my hair stand on end, and filled me with sadness. What kind of a world do we live in, when one is so deprived of love, one descends to killing those who denied it? I cry as I write this. You never know when that stray bullet might catch you. We will all be dead, one way or another. Why wait? Why sit on the wealth of your love when you could be so much happier sharing it? What is money anyway? Pieces of paper that exchange pockets, a concept. This is it.”

I’m calling this The Ksenia Anske Model, which I will be following myself (don’t worry, she already knows I stole it and gave her approval: “Steal it! STEAL IT!!”). I cannot find words to express how much sense this makes to me, so I will stop now and go write another story… well, no, lots of things to fix on this blog first:) Pdf.’s to add, explanations of what this means for those reading my stuff, updates, links, etc. etc.

Don’t Be Afraid to Ask Questions

I write short stories (except for the one novel, which used to be a short story too). That’s how I started, back when I began using English as a way to prevent my mother from reading my diary and realized it actually worked (Oh, the delight when I knew English was the perfect disguise). After I wrote my first story in Romanian, on a few pages of an old and yellowish notebook, pages that I couldn’t just throw away with the notebook because you just don’t throw away blank pages that you could fill with words, my mom took my creation from my hands and started reading. I watched her face transform as she started smiling, and I liked it, it made me feel good. And then she started laughing, and that…well, let’s just say I swore she would never read anything of mine again… or anyone else, for that matter. Stupid me! I didn’t dare ask her why she was laughing. I was too young to interpret that on my own, I still believed that laughter only had one meaning… the one you mean when you want to make fun of people. So I isolated myself even more, and wrote more, and refused more to let anyone read anything. I was in college when I was finally able to have an honest conversation with her about it. This time she cried. Because she felt bad about not telling me why she had laughed back then. And she had laughed because she was proud and couldn’t believe how hysterically funny my story was, and she couldn’t believe I could come up with something like that at my age. We cried together over the lost time during which she wondered if I ever wrote anything again, while I wondered why I continued writing when my own mother had made fun of me, as I thought. The point is I could have had her support all this time, if only I had dared ask a question when I was 12. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, no matter what they are. Question everything, to exhaustion, until people get annoyed with you, until you have answers to keep your mind occupied for a while, and then start asking again. Ask questions when you’re confused, and don’t be intimidated by the one in front of you, they don’t know everything either. Ask when you want to understand something better and the person in front of you is saying “That’s just the way things are.” No, that’s not just the way things are, things are for a reason and you can usually find it, if only you ask enough questions. Ask even if you feel ashamed or embarrassed, there is a slight chance that the answers will take that away and you’ll realize you’re not the only one wanting to know. Just ask. It’s really not that hard to open your mouth and put a string of words together to form a question. Oh yeah, don’t forget the question mark/intonation at the end. If you do, then whatever you say is just a statement and then you really might feel a little stupid.

Hot Water Should Not Be Taken For Granted

I was at this Texas country wedding today. On someone’s pasture, with cows mooing all over the place, hay bales as seats, stepping in cow poop everywhere, tables under huge trees for shelter from the sun. We got there early, before most of the people showed up. I was sitting at a table, with two people I once met at another wedding six years ago (and didn’t remember at all) who were having a casual conversation. The woman said: “I had to go take care of my mom for a little bit, and had to take my shower at night, and I hate taking my shower at night, it is SO inconvenient, it just doesn’t go with the rest of my routine at all.” The reasons for that are completely irrelevant. What she said reminded me of being back home and waiting for the hot water to come. During communism, we had two hours of hot water a day, between 5-7 pm. The rest of the time, all that came through those pipes was ice-cold and rusty-looking (and only helpful in the morning to wake you up). We lived on the fourth floor usually (the cheapest apartments were always on the fourth floor as four-storey buildings did not have elevators). There were four apartments on every floor, and if we assume a three-member family on average in each apartment, that’s about 60 people needing to shower in two hours (we have a ground floor back home, plus first, second, third, and fourth floors). The hot water was used up by the ground and first floor residents, and second floor ones if the others did not all shower at the time. There was never any hot water on the fourth floor. We always had to heat it up on the stove, which meant gas spent on it, which meant less gas for cooking every day and more money spent on gas overall. I was used to taking a bath ONCE A WEEK. You might think that is disgusting, but that’s the way it was. The rest of the time I took what Americans call “whore baths”, at the sink, washing your arm pits and your privates with cold water and soap (soap if we were lucky; incidentally, we were lucky because my father smuggled soap into the country – topic for another post). There was never plenty of anything back home. And these people bitch about how inconvenient it is to have to take a shower at night. I would have given anything to be able to take a shower every couple of days. Just saying…

Our Future Teachers

I recently taught a course entitled Educational Psychology. It is a course for pre-service teachers (for those of you who don’t know, pre-service teachers are those students preparing to become teachers; once they finish college, get certified, and actually get a job in a school district, they become in-service teachers). So I’m teaching this course aimed at preparing the students for the realities of the classroom, of the school and school district, of the policies associated with teaching, of behavioral management, of lesson planning, etc., etc. The grade was calculated based on 14 quizzes (they had three attempts, and we took the highest grade into account), and on two online projects consisting of five questions they had to answer “thoroughly”. Now, these students are preparing to become teachers and educate future generations. These students are the ones who will be educating my kids…technically only, because I have already decided my kids will be home-schooled. These are the people who will be molding your child into a future decent and productive member of society. As such, I was expecting these students to work hard and want to learn, and I was definitely NOT expecting them to not even know how to use the English language. Aren’t you supposed to have a good command of English before you can teach anything to anyone? Aren’t you supposed to know how to use proper grammar, syntax, and punctuation (let alone spelling and capitalization)? Aren’t you supposed to want to get better in your use of the language before you can deliver a lesson to someone else, to young children who don’t know any better and look up to you as a teacher? Is it just me? Am I going crazy thinking that teachers are supposed to be able to write and express themselves correctly? The best part of this is that I wasn’t really allowed to help them. I was told to take 3 points away for language errors overall, but not point out what they did wrong or comment on what they needed to improve. As a result, I get the following responses to one of the projects (see below). I am not including the questions, because they are irrelevant for the point I’m trying to make. Read the answers below and try to figure out if you would let this person teach your child. I would actually really love to know if you would.

The research that the Smartville School District uses during the making is called the field experiment. The field experiment is a type of research that is use in real conditions and information and responses are being processed through the course of time into a data base that helps them acknowledged what is being handled in the experiment. Backing up to the Smartville School District situation, its experiment of the children who are receiving the benefits of the new curriculum ( a definition in which how teachers are given an objective to provide the education the children are required before the end of the year) are call the experimental group. While the children who receive the old curriculum would be call the “Control group” (a definition in which the children are receiving the education “normally” from the past knowledge).
Mr. Jones completed a type of research that is called the correlational research. A student studies for his course instead of going out for the weekends brings a positive correlation for the student having high grades. For those that doesn’t follow, will have negative correlation that could cause low test grades and uneducated.
Kohlberg’s has several “levels” in his theory. The first level of moral reasoning is called the pre-conventional level. Its covers most of the age range from preschool children to elementary students. Though there are some exceptional people that are shown in secondary schools and higher. Pre-conventional is when the individual can make their decisions more often by doing what’s best for themselves without the careless of others feelings. The second level of moral reasoning in Kohlberg’s theory is called conventional morality where it’s mostly revolves around junior high and high school students. This stage is when the individual makes the decision based on the people around them. The individual wants a strong, trusting relationship between his or her friends and significant other. The third and final level is called the post-conventional morality. A stage that revolves around college and other individual’s that has realize that the rules of society for appropriate behavior have a certain agreement’s to what others may ask for.
In Piaget’s theory, Sallie is in what is considered as the concrete operational stage. She cannot provide the ideas of what an adult are supposed to act or be around. However, though she has a disability she is able to solve problem, create ideas, and she is able to see a relationships only if they involve objects that are recognizable. It’s also call seriation, an arrangement where you see a logical progression as the course of time continues. Although it’s a strong theory, Paget’s theory has a weakness which that not every child who are born in this world are the same.
Episodic memory is where our we have a memory bank that holds our personal experiences that we have at least happen to our lives. For example; you remember where you put your wallet every day before you go to sleep. A Semantic memory is where the facts and general information are being saved into such as the principles, rules, laws, interest and how you execute them to solve problems. Last but not least, you have the procedural memory. A memory of where you have learned and use particular types of actions. For example; you learn how to ride a bike, walk for the first time, throwing a football, and running. Sallie would be able to use semantic memory to help her memorize the names of each state.

Memories

I found an old diary today. It is hand-written, in blue ink, with letters well-formed in cursive, with ideas that I’ve since forgotten and thus never realized I missed. One entry, dated July 4, 1997 (17 years ago) notes: “Happy Birthday, America! I wish I was there with you…” At a time when I was still in high-school, alone with my mother, estranged from my brother and father, with no means, no money, no way of going anywhere and in a country so far away from the States, one teenager dreamed of coming to America. And I talked about it as if I knew it would happen. I always hoped it would happen, but truth be told, I knew there was no way. Still, here I am… 17 years later, sharing my thoughts with anonymous readers, through this marvel we call blogging. Sometimes I wish we could turn back time to where there were no cell phones and people actually had to open their mouths and utter sounds and form words to speak to each other… but I go with the flow myself, so I can’t really blame anyone for it. We have to adapt, and the ability to do that, to me, shows how smart someone is. I’ve been studying IQ-related material for quite a few years now, and the more I study it the way it is presented in books and the way we have to test for it, the more I believe that being smart has so much more to do with one’s ability to adapt to the environment and to not freak out over every little thing that seems to be posing a problem. Adaptability, I believe, is the key…

Review: “A Case of Erotomania”

I found this short story on Read a Newbie.

I like the opening paragraph, you make it clear without really saying so that Christian is dominated by his mother, probably a little afraid of her.

You also paint us a picture early on of the two friends that leads us to believe they come from a rich background.

I like the story, it held my attention to the end. I felt sorry for the girl who thought because Christian smiled at her in the elevator that he was in love with her. She was obsessed with him and obviously stalking him. Yet he was not aware of any of this. Christian meant everything to this poor girl and he and his rich family didn’t bat an eye when he died.

Things like this unfortunately do happen in real life and I think it is good you have written this story and put it out there.

Very well written.

From riverbedwriter on www.writing.com

A Case of Erotomania

At his mother’s request, Christian Cass was on his way to visit his friend, Caley, in the hospital. It wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do, but that is exactly why his mother had promised him his favorite dinner dishes if he agreed to it. Her reasoning – that it was impolite not to visit Caley – didn’t make much sense to Christian, who sometimes experienced a mild case of blood phobia when he was anywhere around doctors. Also, it was a well-known fact in their high society circle that Christian and Caley, having been friends for so many years, had always forgiven each other such minor discourtesies. Nevertheless, Christian had agreed to go because he did care about his friend, and also because he wanted to make Mrs. Cass happy. The promise of his favorite food for dinner had played a big role in his decision, too.

He pulled up his Porsche in one of the vacant spots in the huge parking lot in front of the hospital, grabbed the wooden that had been casually thrown in the passenger seat by his steward, activated the car’s alarm, and started walking toward the visitors’ entrance. He wondered if Caley would be caught smoking the Cuban cigars that had been carefully placed in the box he carried so openly in one hand. And if he was caught, then what? He laughed to himself. They were not the people to worry about the consequences of their actions.

He got to the elevators and waited patiently, while people gathered around him, getting so close that he could hear their uninteresting and annoying conversations. When an elevator finally arrived, Christian allowed everyone else to get on first, as he always did. He loathed being boxed in by doctors and nurses carrying cups of hot coffee that could be easily spilled. He actually loathed being so close to people that he could feel their breaths on his neck. The elevator ride could not be over soon enough for him. As the doors were closing, he saw a young woman running toward him. He realized she wanted to get on too, and decided to hold the elevator for her. As soon as she was standing beside him, Christian could smell her perfume, and since it reminded him of one of his old girlfriends, he quickly glanced to his left to take a look.

She was wearing an ugly yellow uniform, but he could still notice the jeans underneath and the slender figure in them. Her short brown hair was barely covering her ears, but was disheveled enough to cover her face. As if feeling his eyes on her, the woman turned around. She looked right into his blue eyes, noticed the little scar on his left eyebrow and the dimple in his chin, and then gave him the biggest smile he had ever seen. He felt compelled to smile back, but just then the elevator doors were opening again and the woman was walking out of it and out of his life.

Christian forgot all about her by the time he got to his friend’s private room. He knocked and went in without waiting for an invitation. Caley, in his blue silk pajamas, was browsing dog magazines while lying comfortably on his bed.

“Anything interesting in there?” Christian asked while putting the wooden box on the TV table.

“Hey, buddy, you finally made it,” Caley smiled at him. “Sorry I can’t get up, my operation still hurts. You know how much I hate pain,” he said while shaking Christian’s hand.

“So how bad was it?”

Even though he didn’t like hospitals, Christian was genuinely interested in his friend’s health. Unlike everyone else in their circle, Caley could actually keep a secret, a little something Christian had always appreciated. The secret – the fact that Christian had accidentally burnt down his mother’s winter lodge – was what had made them become really close after quite a few years of partying together. At the time, Caley had provided an alibi for Christian, and so the matter had remained unresolved. Their friendship had grown and, among other things, accounted for Christian’s genuine interest.

“Oh, it was fine. I’m glad they caught it in time. They’re saying it could have killed me,” he started laughing.

“I really doubt appendicitis could kill a man like you,” Christian said, all the while hoping that he wouldn’t have to see blood anywhere.

Their conversation continued like that for another hour or so, and when Christian got home that night his mother was waiting for him with his favorite dishes on the dinner table.

A few weeks later, on a warm spring morning, Mona was walking fast toward the café. She was already 30 minutes late, and she knew the manager wouldn’t let it slide this time. She knew she had to time her activities better, but it was just too hard when she had such a beautiful thing to think about. She walked in, looked around to see how busy the place was, then went behind the counter where Jeanne, her friend and co-worker, was counting money.

“Hey, you’re late again, he’s not very happy about it,” she whispered.

“I know, I know. I’ll make it up, I just had something I really needed to do today, that’s all,” Mona answered, not really worried about her work. “When did he get here?” she asked while putting on the ugly yellow uniform that was an absolute requirement for the job.

“Oh, about fifteen minutes ago. He’s in the back now but he’ll be out any minute, so just keep your mouth shut if he says something,” Jeanne was now pouring a fresh cup of coffee for the guy who had been in there every day for the past two weeks, just to see her.

Mona knew it was a good idea to just apologize. What she didn’t know was if she could do it while holding back her anger over being scolded every time she was a few minutes late. As if he ever was there on time, or ever did anything that could fit his own job description. Eventually, the manager came out from his small room in the back, but he didn’t say anything. Apparently, he was on his way to the bank to file papers for a new loan. In view of that, the fact that Mona had been late again was no biggie. Relieved, she went about her usual tasks.

When she got home that night, she took her place on the roof of the two-story house she had recently rented with the money she had made selling all her father’s sculptures. Although she had promised not to, she hadn’t hesitated for one moment, as it was imperative to be as close to her love as possible. She had everything she needed up there, even a bed for those nights when Christian was coming home late. She wanted to make sure she didn’t miss anything. She imagined that the situation in his house must be very strained – because he was about to give up everything to be with her – so she just felt she needed to be there for him, even if he wasn’t aware of it.

She sat down on the couch, took out a pen and notepad, and started writing him another letter. He hadn’t replied to her previous ones, but she knew his mother was probably reading his mail. She had to keep trying. Until they could be together, that was the only way to communicate with him, to assure him of her undying love and devotion, to offer her support in his future attempt to break away from his domineering mother.

From time to time, she would look up to see if anything was going on. It was almost time for him to come back from his late rehearsal, and she was growing restless. Suddenly, she saw his car pull up in the driveway. She stood up and took the binoculars from the table next to the couch, happy at the thought she was going to see him, even if it was for just one moment. She watched him getting out of the car, taking his things from the back seat, and going in. That was enough to fill her with heavenly joy. A few minutes later, as it started to rain, she wondered what Christian would think when getting her present the next day. She uttered a few curse words, while thinking that even nature was against them. Unwillingly, she went inside, changed her clothes, and went to bed.

Mrs. Cass went into her son’s room and pulled back the heavy blue velvet curtains. It was time for him to get up, and get ready for the meeting with the lawyer. They were going to donate money for the building of a new library in town, and Christian needed to be there.

“Rise and shine, pumpkin,” she almost yelled, while Christian was already opening his eyes, obviously bothered by the light flooding his otherwise very dark room.

“Mom, how many times have I told you not to call me that? I’m not a kid anymore…” Obviously frustrated, he was wondering when his mother was going to realize he was a grown-up, a 23-year-old who could very well do without such blatant displays of affection.

“You’ll always be my little baby, and you know that. Besides, I’m your mother and I have the right to call you anything I want. Be glad I’m not doing it in public, like dear Carol does,” Mrs. Cass said as she sat on his bed, marveling again at what a handsome young man she had produced.

“You’re right, I have to admit,” he said, suddenly remembering the embarrassment his friend Caley went through every time his mother called him “my little tuna fish” in front of everyone who had ears to hear. But then again, “pumpkin” was not that flattering, either.

“Ok, mom, you can go now, I’m wide awake. We can have breakfast in 20 minutes,” he said, and after kissing her good-morning, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, as promised, he took his place at the table, opposite his mother, hoping she wouldn’t lecture him again about his choice of career. All he wanted was to be a great musician, to play on the greatest stages in Europe, where he believed people still appreciated classical music. Ever since Mrs. Cass had found out about his decision, she had tried everything possible to make him give up; bribery, threats, nothing had worked with her stubborn son. However, he knew Mrs. Cass wouldn’t give up and so he had to be prepared for an argument all the time.

They started eating, and he was enjoying a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice when the butler came in, carrying what seemed to be a very big frame. Mother and son looked at each other, wondering what that was about.

“Well, John, are you going to tell us what this is?” Mrs. Cass asked, obviously as frustrated as she ever was when a meal was intruded upon.

“I don’t know what it is, ma’am. It was by the door this morning. I think there’s a card,” John said, and left after having received the usual cue from his employer.

Christian stood up, took the present and started tearing the common brown wrapping paper into small pieces. When he was done, he looked shocked. From the big frame, his own face was staring back at him. It looked like one of those photos private detectives take when they are on a case and have to catch someone doing something they’re not supposed to. In black and white, his head turned a little to the right, it was obvious he didn’t know he was being photographed. The picture had been taken the day before, when he was leaving the Conservatory after a morning class. He turned the frame for his mother to see, and she was as shocked as him.

“What do you think is the meaning of this?” he asked her.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I’m calling the police.”

“Mom, don’t do that. It’s just a …big photo of me. And there’s a card. Let me see what it says first, ok?”

He opened the card and read out loud: My life started when we fell in love. They can’t do anything to keep us apart. Our love will conquer all. Until then, you’re always on my mind, always in my dreams, always…Love, M.

They were both stunned. The mother because she immediately suspected her son had a girlfriend she wasn’t supposed to know about; the son because he had no idea where that was coming from or who had sent it.

“Is there something I should know about?” she said inquisitively, looking at him as if trying to read his mind.

“No, mom, I have no idea what this is supposed to mean. My friend Michael is the only one I know with the initial M. I doubt he’s in love with me. I really don’t know anything about this,” he answered immediately, and she knew he was telling the truth. She had always been able to tell.

Satisfied that it was a complete mystery, they finished breakfast in silence for once, and left the comfort of their house for another one of those days when they had to decide how many millions went where.

Mona’s day had started very well. She had woken up at five in the morning, to make sure she saw when John found her present by the front door. She watched him coming outside, picking up the big frame, looking around as if he expected to see a trace of whoever had left it there, and then going back inside.

For the first time in a month she got to work in time. Still, Jeanne had been the first to arrive this time, too. They smiled at each other while preparing the cappuccino machines for that day.

“So, how’s it going with Christian?” Jeanne suddenly asked, really curious, and very happy that her friend was finally experiencing love. Something she was experiencing herself every week, but still, something beautiful.

“It’s going great. It’s the first time I’ve been happy since my dad died last year,” Mona admitted in a sad voice, but still smiling. “You know, I don’t think his mother likes me, though,” she said, becoming even sadder.

“Why do you say that?” Jeanne inquired. From her point of view, Mona was the kind of girlfriend any man would have been proud to bring home to his mother. She couldn’t believe that someone didn’t like her.

“Well, I think…actually, I’m pretty sure she’s reading his mail, and…I think she doesn’t give him my letters when she can get away with it.”

“How do you know? What makes you think that?” Jeanne could not believe her ears.

“He didn’t answer any of my letters so far. What other explanation could there be? “

“Well, when did you last see him?” Jeanne asked.

“Oh,last night. I would have brought it up, but I was too happy to see him.”

Jeanne thought to herself that it certainly made sense, and still she couldn’t imagine someone not liking her friend. She was very pretty, in an odd sort of way, and she could have used a hair stylist once in a while. But she was sweet, and giving, and wouldn’t have hurt a fly if her life depended on it. Every time she thought she had this puzzle solved, she realized it never was. Weren’t mothers supposed to just be grateful for their sons’ happiness? What more did this mother want? She decided to focus on her job and forget all about men and their mothers for a while.

The morning passed faster than usual, probably because of how many clients they had. When they sat down to have lunch, they were both already tired, and wondering how they were going to last through the after-noon.

“So, tell me again how you two met,” Jeanne said while flooding her salad with Italian white sauce.

“Oh, come on, Jeanne…I’ve told you the story a hundred times,” Mona replied, fully aware that she would tell the story again.

“Just this time, and I promise to leave you alone…for the rest of the day,” Jeanne laughed, showing her beautiful white teeth.

“Well, you know I volunteer at the hospital every Monday afternoon. It was on one of those days…as usual, I was running to catch the elevator, and this unbelievably handsome young man held it for me. As soon as I got in, he started staring at me. I didn’t know why, but I could feel his eyes all over me. I turned around and…there he was, the man of my dreams. I was gonna tell him not to look at me like that, but I changed my mind. He was so…I can’t even explain it, Jeanne…you know, I just felt he was meant to be there just so we could meet. Anyway, by the time I got to my floor, he was smiling so big… I knew he wanted to say something, but I had to get off. When I left, he was waiting for me downstairs, and he gave me a ride home. We talked and we talked, and I knew we were in love. Simple as that…”

A week later, after a long day at work, Mona couldn’t wait to get home and spend at least an hour in her huge bathtub, surrounded by millions of sparkling bubbles. She was wondering when she would see Christian again. She was going to get up on the roof, but still, it wasn’t the same thing.

As she passed by his house, she couldn’t help looking through the bars of the heavy iron gate, expecting to see, as always, the seven stone steps leading to the main entrance. Instead, she saw a car, one that she had never seen before. A two-door convertible BMW was parked in front of the house, obstructing half of her view of the door.

She started to panic. Who could that be? she wondered, while trying hard to think back. Maybe she had seen it before, and she just couldn’t recall. She closed her eyes, thinking about the cars she did know. Christian had a Porsche, Mrs. Cass a Mercedes, the family lawyer drove a Cadillac, and so on. By the time she got inside her house, she remembered the photos the private investigator had taken for her and forgot all about her bath.

She went straight upstairs, to the roof. She took the pictures from the file labeled “C.C.” and frantically started looking for one, just one, of the mysterious car. If she had one photo, it meant there was nothing to worry about, because she had information on everyone who had been at the Cass residence since she had moved in next door.

She didn’t find anything in her file, so she threw it down, grabbed her binoculars and started spying. She had to find out whose car that was, because a very bad feeling was slowly taking over her, and she didn’t like it one bit.

She couldn’t see anything at first. The curtains in the living room were drawn, Christian’s room and the library were both in the dark. She kept looking, and suddenly she thought she saw a light right above the library. She directed the binoculars towards it, while trying to think if she had ever noticed anything up there.

She zoomed in, looked carefully for a moment, and then found herself gasping for air. Christian was there and he wasn’t alone. He was very busy hugging and kissing a tall blonde girl, with nice long legs, who was responding with a great deal of affection.

Mona was devastated. She started crying and when she couldn’t watch anymore, she fell to the floor. Her whole world was destroyed, her hopes and dreams were shattered, her faith in love had just taken an unbelievable blow. She tried to tell herself that maybe her eyes were lying to her. She got up and looked again. Christian and the girl were now on the sofa, half naked.

She knew what that meant. She went inside, then down the stairs to the ground floor, and opened the door to her bedroom. She had chosen the biggest room in the house, one with blank white walls that were now covered with photographs of Christian. In all sizes, the photos taken by the PI were offering a view that was pure heaven to her. The bed, rather small, was in the middle of the room, surrounded by countless candles, one for every thought of Christian she had.

Crying silently, she sat down on the bed, grabbed a heart-shaped pillow and held it to her chest. Her mind was confused again, it seemed like hundreds of thoughts were trying to surface, but none made any sense. Broken fragments of ideas reminded her of all the nights she had spent on that roof, and of all the letters she had written. She remembered flashes of her therapy sessions at the hospital, every Monday, when her psychiatrist was trying to put her on medication because talk therapy had never been enough to bring her back from the fantasy world she lived in. She remembered endless conversations about the men before Christian, about how none of them even knew her.

This time she couldn’t take it anymore. Nothing anyone said was true. What was true was her love for Christian, a love so deep, so intense, and so real that she believed nothing could destroy it. It didn’t matter that he was up there, in that attic, making love to a beautiful blonde. She knew she could make him be sorry. He was going to be sorry when he found out she had died for him.

Suddenly, she got up from the bed and went to the kitchen. She found one of the notepads scattered all over the house, and wrote a note for Christian: I don’t want to die before telling you how much I love you. I forgive you for everything you did and I will be waiting for you. In eternity, we will be together. Love, M.

She left the note on the table – where it could be easily seen – turned on the gas, lay down on the floor and placed her head inside the oven. It didn’t take long for her to lose consciousness, not even long enough for her to think about Christian one more time.

The next morning, while Mrs. Cass was trying to enjoy her breakfast, her good disposition was suddenly disturbed by loud sounds of ambulance sirens and police cars. She stood up from the table and approached the window, while her son was entering the room, accompanied by his new girlfriend.

“Mom, what’s going on?” he asked, while walking over to where his mother was.

“I don’t know. It looks like something happened next door. I didn’t even know someone was living there. I’ll send John to see. I don’t think I’ve ever seen police cars in this neighborhood before.”

She left the room, and came back two minutes later. “Let’s have breakfast, my darlings,” she said, as if nothing had happened.

John went outside and talked at length with anyone who was willing to volunteer any information. When he was satisfied with the answers, he picked up the mail, removed all the blank envelopes – as he had always been instructed to do – and went back to report and deliver the rest of the correspondence.

“John, did you find out what happened next door?” Mrs. Cass asked in a neutral voice, when he came in.

“Yes, it seems a young lady took her own life last night. She just turned on the gas, and…” he didn’t continue.

“Dear God, the house could have exploded,” Mrs. Cass said, obviously more worried about that than about the death of a human being. “Well, I guess some people are just like that,” she added and continued her breakfast, accompanied by her son and a tall blonde girl.

Review: “About Cruelty”

My name is Lyn and I am doing a review for Simply Positive (on www.writing.com).

Please remember I am a writer, I know what it feels like to be reviewed! I have only my humble opinion to offer; please take what you feel is helpful and disregard the rest. Only YOU know what is right for your writing!

Title: About Cruelty

First Impression: My heart went out to the author immediately. What a horrific experience.

What I liked: Princess standing up to her father, and how she coped with the experience. It is not easy to step into a situation knowing what is at risk. That was very brave of the author.

What needs your attention: Nothing, that I noticed.

Favorite Parts: The night her mother finally called the police and stood up for herself and her daughter. I couldn’t help wondering why she had not before that. Maybe a bit more explanation why the mother did not help keep her daughter safe. That is unusual! Did the author ever talk with the mother about it, because those conversations would add a lot to the story.

Overall Impression: The story about domestic violence unfolded as I anticipated I know from personal experience what it is like to be a child in a house with volatile parents and then I married a man who felt it was his right to hit me. It took a while for me to break that cycle but I did it for my children. I am sorry that the author lost her first love. .

Thank you for letting me read your work. It was my pleasure!

From Lyn on www.writing.com

About Cruelty

The warm sounds of “The Moonlight Sonata” fill the cold atmosphere of my room. I just stand here, looking through the window at the same lame scenery I have been looking at for 19 years. Leaving this room means leaving the past and everything that has something to do with it. As if to prevent it, the memories of my childhood hold hands and dance around me in circles, urging me to take them back in my mind. But I already forgot them, I have pressured myself to do it and I have succeeded. They don’t impress me anymore. Nostalgia makes me cry but it is time to leave the past behind.

The room is almost empty. The only thing left is a tape recorder that I always carry around with me. I can’t decide to leave yet. Even though I have been waiting for this moment for so long, I find it hard. So many things have happened in this room that it’s impossible to leave it just like that. It has become a part of me; it holds all my secrets, same as the diary hidden under the floor, where my favorite lamp has been. I feel tears coming to my eyes when I think that even the furniture has been given away. Another rebel teenager probably sleeps in my bed now, dreaming my own dreams. If I close my eyes, I can see her laying on white, ordinary sheets still keeping the heavy smell of starch, near some good-looking boyfriend who fell asleep face down, with his head on her thighs, after having offered her a few hours of pleasure.

But what am I saying? I was less than seventeen when all this happened to me for the first time. I still remember how happy I was, so full of life, so… It’s too bad I’m not able to feel like that anymore. Too bad I have to leave this place, even though it would be so hard to say how many happy moments I’ve had here. But maybe I should start with the beginning…

I can’t go beyond the age of five. Through some kind of strange phenomenon, it seems that my life began with that fifth birthday. The house was full of a bunch of annoying and noisy kids who put my mother through hell, even though I was too young to understand that back then. Yes, my father was there too, but he was too busy playing clown. I can’t say he was very good at it, but it looked like some of my little friends found him funny enough to watch him for hours. He had rented a silly suit and a horse and, on the back lawn, he tried his best to make the show worthy of me.

The home movie my mother made then and the photos in the family albums help me remember the entire day. Even though the cake was usually brought out after lunch, my parents had decided to surprise me. They managed to postpone the moment until nightfall. They had decorated the trees in the garden with the Christmas decorations we kept in a box. When night came, they plugged them in and suddenly the garden became a fairy-tale place. Everything was covered in light. The kids were fascinated. They had never seen something as beautiful. They were all quiet and they weren’t even asked to be. My parents brought out the cake, a huge chocolate heart with a hundred candles on top of it. Five of them, indicating my age, were higher. I remember being so happy! While I blew out the candles, I wished that nothing would ever change. Ever. I wished I were forever five, with my mom and dad who loved each other so much. With my five-year-old mind I couldn’t conceive something else. It was obvious that my tale would last forever. I was a little princess whose every wish was fulfilled by the Good Fairy. I guess my Good Fairy probably didn’t hear me that day, because things soon started to change.

After a year or two, I was definitely able to say that the atmosphere in the house wasn’t the same. I wasn’t always sure of it. Sometimes I even talked to my dolls, telling them I had had a bad dream. The fact that my father had stopped coming to pick me up from school was a real tragedy to me. I couldn’t understand what my mother kept trying to explain to me, that my father had to work a lot, but that he did it for his little princess, so that I would have everything I wanted. Even if I wasn’t convinced of that, I started believing it. The beauty of my childhood faded away a little by little, but somehow I always found other things to occupy my mind with.

Then I started seeing my mother crying and trying to hide it. I wanted to pretend I didn’t notice anything, but my childish curiosity couldn’t be detained. I had to find out the reason behind my mom’s tears. I would climb up on her knees when I saw her like that: “Mommy, why are you crying? Mommy, don’t cry…” I would beg. She would hold me tight in her arms and start crying even heavier than before. I couldn’t see her face when I sat like that on her knees, my head resting on her shoulder, but I felt her warm tears on the back of my neck. I would always get cold chills when I felt that, but I wouldn’t leave her until she asked me to. I knew that my hugs made her happy and so I used to hug her all the time, with no reason at all. When she was not upset, she would kiss me on my forehead and ask in a low voice: “What do you want now?” as if I did that only to get something in return. We both knew that wasn’t true.

I was eight when I heard my mother screaming for the first time. I thought it was just the TV at first, but I listened carefully and I realized that it was coming from their bedroom. I went quickly up the stairs and I opened the door. I could barely see anything for the next twenty seconds because of the tears. But what I had glanced at was enough. I hid in my room, in the darkest corner of my closet, holding Mr. Teddy tight to my chest, and I started properly crying. I couldn’t chase away the image of my mother lying in a pool of blood on the immaculate white of the bed, while my father hit her with one of those huge bats he was sometimes playing around with.

My innocent and limited imagination conceived no explanation for the horrible thing I had just seen. I refused the reality of the scene because my charmed inner world allowed me to. I prayed that I would wake up and enjoy a beautiful spring morning. Of course, that didn’t happen. Two hours later I dared get out of the closet and when I went to the window, I saw the ambulance in front of the house. I had seen one on TV so many times, but I couldn’t react at first. When I saw they were taking my mother away, I started down the stairs as fast as possible, because I wanted to go with her. It was too late, though. The ambulance had just left – I could still see it – and my father sat on the porch.

He probably heard me coming, because he turned around immediately. He came to me and reached his arms out, as he used to do when he wanted me to hug him. I refused because his face looked strange to me. I was afraid of him. I held my teddy bear tight in my weak arms and I told him I wanted to see my mother. Maybe I was expecting him to pick me up and say I could see her that very moment. He came towards me staggering and hit me. I fell on the living room floor and then noticed the blood that came out of my nose. I watched him going up the stairs, barely being able to stand. I got Mr. Teddy back from the corner where he had landed in a position that, under different circumstances, would have seemed hilarious to me. I went outside, trying to avoid the heavy smell of alcohol my father had left behind.

At that moment – the first from the many I would be the witness of in the next five years – I knew I would hate him for the rest of my life. Maybe if he tried to make it better, or change in any way, I could have found a way not to. But I was only a child whose perfect world had crumbled down and who couldn’t do anything about it.

The violent scenes in my home multiplied. I kept hearing the fights; I gradually began to understand the accusations they made to each other and eventually the hits, but I still couldn’t understand why that was happening. I couldn’t help asking myself every day: “Why don’t mommy and daddy love each other anymore?” That much was obvious, even to me. I tried to ask my mother, but every time I got the same annoying answer: “You’re too young to understand. But you don’t need to think about this. I promise it’ll be ok.”

I couldn’t wait to grow up, to understand the meaning of the disaster around me. Meanwhile, I learned to stay out of his way, when noticing he could not keep his balance very well. I didn’t always manage that, so I often had to make up all kinds of lies for the people who asked what had happened to me. I felt so bad that I couldn’t wear short skirts anymore, like all the other girls in school. I always wore long pants and big t-shirts, trying to hide the bruises that didn’t have time to heal before I had new ones.

One summer, when I was thirteen, he kept me locked in the basement for two weeks. I had started standing up to him and he didn’t like it that I tried to draw his attention so that he wouldn’t hit mom anymore. Taking advantage of the fact that my mother was at work, he locked me down there in the dark, without food or water. He did it because he was evil, because he hated me. He knew I had always been afraid of the dark. I still am. I still can’t fall asleep without a dim light on.

Still, I was lucky. He had forgotten that my mother kept winter supplies in there. I opened cans of carrots and green beans and ate. I still needed light, though. I couldn’t sleep in the dark. I paced back and forth, always finding small corners I hadn’t checked before. I couldn’t think about anything beautiful, as they had told us in school to do when we were afraid. The idea that the deep darkness would give birth to a horrible monster consumed me. He got me out of there eventually. He probably wouldn’t have done it if my mother hadn’t had the courage to remind him in one of the few peaceful moments he had. When he saw me still alive, he beat me up so bad that I had to be taken to the hospital.

A few months later, towards the end of November, something strange enough happened. The weather was bleak, it had started to rain since early morning and it hadn’t stopped by two o’clock, when my mother came to my room and said:

“Princess, will you get dressed really nice in a few minutes? We’re going to the park.”

She closed the door and let me get dressed. While I looked at my closet, not knowing what mom had really meant by “nice,” I thought about him. I had heard him leaving the house and he wasn’t back yet. And after all, that was no weather for a walk in the park. But I didn’t dare ask my mom anything, maybe because of the indefinite feeling that something important was going to happen.

I had noticed my mother wasn’t crying that much anymore, she had stopped begging for forgiveness, she had stopped telling him how much she loved him. All this was confusing to me, but what could I do? There were moments when I desperately wanted to be a boy. I could have prevented him from hurting my mother. But I was just a thirteen-year-old girl who was learning to survive.

I eventually chose the blue over-rolls that my mother had secretly given to me as a birthday present, and that I had never worn before. She smiled when she saw me, but only later did I realize that she wasn’t really smiling because of me. She drove to the park without saying a word. I wanted to ask her something, but it seemed that my words were stuck in my throat. She heard my thoughts, or so I thought at the time, because she told me, while trying to reach for my forehead with her soft comforting hand: “Wouldn’t you like to have a brother?” “Mommy is going to have a baby?” I thought, already imagining the little one who would cry and scream, waking everybody up in the middle of the night. I didn’t have time to answer anything, because mom stopped the car and told me to get out. We passed the big gate and walked towards the playground. The rain kept falling from the sky, like tears of a god watching over me.

I was still wondering what we were doing there when I noticed the two figures. I knew all of a sudden that they were waiting for us, but I didn’t recognize them. I had never seen them before. My mother hugged them both. The tall man whispered something in her ear, making her smile, and the little boy – who was probably my age – kissed her on the cheek and told her he had missed her. Then my mother introduced me. I didn’t care much about the man’s name, as I didn’t understand what he had to do with us.

But Eric seduced me from the first moment with his blue eyes. We went to sit on a bench under a tree. It didn’t help much, but at least there was the feeling of being somehow protected. We stayed there for almost an hour, carrying on the silliest conversation I had ever had. I liked Eric. I found out that we attended the same school and the same music club, without ever noticing each other. My mother’s conversation with that man was of no interest to me, so I didn’t pay much attention to her words: “Ok, you convinced me. I’ll file a complaint the first chance I get. There must be a way…”

The chance she was talking about appeared later that same day. He was home when we got there. He was obviously angry when he was asking mom where we had been, and when he realized she was lying, he started the usual routine, hitting her. He stopped after a few minutes to take another sip from the bottle he held. Seizing the moment, mom dragged me behind her, at the same time getting the phone, too. We locked ourselves in one of the closets in the hallway and, while my father was hitting the doors with a golf club, she dialed 911. I was so confused I didn’t hear much. I saw her put the phone down and then she held me, covering my ears with her hands to prevent me from hearing the mean words he yelled at us. It took us about ten minutes to hear the sirens and then mom whispered that policemen will help us be safe.

I heard them enter the house and fight my father. We both came out of the closet and after she told me to go upstairs, she sat in the kitchen with a policeman. From the top of the stairs I heard him saying: “That’s more than enough to file a complaint against him. There’s nothing to worry about anymore.” My mother thanked him and promised that she would go to the police station the next day. After that, the policeman left. I never saw my father again. A few months later, the man in the park and little Eric moved in. When they got married, I still didn’t understand how that was possible in so little time. Eric explained to me that he would be my brother and his father would be my father.

I loved Eric’s father on the spot. I liked it that he treated us both the same. On Eric’s birthday, he would bring me a present, too. On my birthday, he would get one for Eric. He took us to that park and did everything we wanted. He took us to school and picked us up, even if we had different schedules. He bought a cottage in the mountains for us to spend the winter breaks there. He never did anything to us if we did something wrong, except explain why he thought it was wrong. We never made the same mistake again.

Most of all, I liked the fact that I never saw my mother cry again. Maybe just when she was too happy. He would bring her flowers or chocolate. He used to cook for us. He made up recipes for us, sometimes he failed, but that amused everyone so much. Eric and I were always together. At school, on trips, at the movies, on holidays, we were always together. And even though we had separate rooms, we used to sleep together in my bed, pretending that it was fluffier than the one in his room.

The happiness lasted for about four years. During all this time, I had never heard one raised voice in our house. There were moments, though, when I briefly remembered the two weeks spent in the basement or one of the accidents my mother had to explain at the hospital. During one of those moments, Eric and I realized our feelings weren’t that innocent anymore.

It was one of the few nights that we didn’t sleep in the same bed. I was dreaming that my father had come back home and was threatening the four of us. I could see Eric hanging from the living room ceiling fan. I woke up and started crying so loud that I woke Eric up. He was near me the next moment. He took me in his arms and started caressing me, kissing my forehead, my cheeks and eventually my lips. It was my first kiss and I couldn’t help asking for more. I realized soon that it wasn’t his first. But that was natural, after all. He was seventeen, he was good-looking and his blue eyes could have seduced any girl. I knew a lot of them myself. He told me he was in love with me. I told him the same thing but that somehow made him stop. He went to his room and came back with a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and, standing by the window, he started explaining me that his feelings now were very different than those he had for me where we were kids.

He really was in love with me but had never found the moment to tell me. He had been with so many girls hoping that would somehow help him forget or discover he was wrong.

“When I kissed you just now, I knew you felt the same way. Maybe you’ll refuse to believe it, but that won’t last long.”

I was confused. He was right, maybe more than he imagined. I was the one avoiding the reality of the situation.

“What will they say when they find out?” I asked him.

He threw the cigarette out the window and came near me. We lay there, covered with that soft blanket, holding hands.

“I don’t think they should find out,” he replied.

“But we can’t do that. We’re brother and sister,” I showed him my fears.

“We’re not really brother and sister, not by blood,” he said. “We’re not doing anything wrong. I already thought about it.” He seemed so sure of himself, that I stopped questioning what we were doing at that very moment.

A few days later, during the weekend, we spent our real first night together, taking advantage of the fact that our parents had left for the mountains. They wanted to get the cottage ready, to celebrate there their fifth wedding anniversary. It happened fast, as I was rather inexperienced, but that was a one-time thing. That night, after having a cigarette, Eric fell asleep with his head on my thighs. From above, moonlight fell gently on his curly black hair. My mind couldn’t think straight. Any rational thoughts had just vanished. I didn’t look for justifications and I didn’t try to understand how that had happened. My teenage love was enough. There was nothing else.

We lived like that through the last year of high school. My mother seemed to suspect something. She tried to get me to talk almost every morning.

“You seem happier than the usual,” she would say while making tea or coffee.

Eric would come down from his room and we would smile at each other.

“I think you’re in love,” she would go on, but I never confirmed it.

Then she would look at Eric, notice the smile and attack him: “And you know something about it. You definitely know something. But you’re on your sister’s side. You’re not going say anything, are you?”

She would leave us alone, seeing that she couldn’t make us talk, but only until the next morning. We could often hear her behind us, while we were getting in Eric’s car.

“Kids! Why don’t they ever talk to us?”

Eric wasn’t at all concerned with the way we lived. I was the one doing that. I was the one living with the fear of being caught. I had tried to get him to talk to me so many times, but Eric’s way of postponing things had gotten to me too. And nothing would have probably happened if mom hadn’t seen us holding hands while sitting in the swing behind the house. She looked at us funny, but she didn’t say anything. She started watching us carefully from then on. She would go into our bedrooms without knocking, especially when she knew we were together. She would check the parties we went to and show up at school when we least expected it.

Eventually, I was the one to give in. I needed to talk to someone. I had decided to tell mom the truth, but I still needed Eric’s approval.

“No, there is no way she can know about this,” his definite answer was.

“But we must do something. I can’t go on living like this. This is not what I want for us.”

“Do you think I like it? Do you think it amuses me that I can’t just go outside and scream as loud as I can that I’m in love with you? That you belong to me? I’m trying to think about…”

“We won’t be able to be together forever, even if we don’t have the same blood…as far as the law is concerned, we are related…brother and sister. Unless our parents break up…”

I didn’t even realize saying the last sentence. It just slipped. I didn’t think Eric would take it seriously. I didn’t believe him when he told me he had something in mind, something to make them break up. He didn’t want to say more, and I didn’t insist. I hoped he hadn’t been serious. He brought it up again, several days later, at school.

“I’ve got it,” he said, obviously very happy. “We just have to prove mom that dad isn’t the man she thinks he is. It would be enough to make her give him up.”

“I don’t know, Eric, she’s so in love with him.”

“She’ll stop loving him when she finds out he tried to rape her daughter.”

I didn’t realize it at first, but the more he explained it to me, the more it made sense. Of course I tried to make him give it up. I begged him to just go away to some place where they wouldn’t find us. It would have been less painful, but Eric wanted this to go his way or no way.

I hesitated, but the thought of being with him without having anyone asking questions got through to me. My selfish inner self was more important to me than anything else. So I went to his dad’s office. We talked about the car I wanted so much. He agreed to buy me any model I wanted. After our conversation was over, I stepped out and, taking advantage of the fact that the secretary was not there, I tore the sleeves of my blouse and the short skirt I had on. I spoiled my make-up just in time to be seen by the secretary. She was very nice to me and she offered to help. My performance was pretty good, she really believed me.

I was in the same state when I got home. Mom was in the kitchen, baking a complicated nauseous cake for her husband. At first, I pretended nothing happened. But she insisted and so I had to tell her. There was no point in keeping something so important from my own mother, was it? She couldn’t believe it at first, but she figured I had no reason whatsoever to lie to her. A scandal immediately followed. Eric and I hid at the top of the stairs; we locked hands and listened carefully. Everything seemed to be going the right way.

They didn’t talk to each other for a few days. I felt guilty. I kept thinking about how unhappy my mom had been before. Now she would be like that again. Because of me. How could I do something like that to her?

One day I noticed they didn’t fight anymore. I didn’t understand what was happening. I was happy because Eric and I were going to get married. I knew they wouldn’t be able to do anything about that. We were to leave right after the ceremony. We had arranged everything and when Eric went to settle a date with the neighborhood chapel, I called them both to the living room. I asked them to forgive me for all the lies and trouble I had cause between them and I explained to them why I had done it.

Contrary to what I expected, they seemed to take it pretty well. That’s only because they already knew. Mom had found my diary. All I understood was that they had been discussing it and had decided to support us. I couldn’t believe it. If only I had known that before, so many things wouldn’t have happened. We were all happy. I told them about our plans and about the dreams we had while trying to keep everything secret. We were interrupted by the phone-ring. Eric’s dad picked it up. When he came back, I was standing by the window, wondering what took Eric so long. He told me to sit down. I could see he was troubled. He couldn’t hold back his tears when he told us that there had been an accident. Eric’s car had been caught in a pile up. The paramedics weren’t able to take him out in time.

I don’t even know how the next two weeks passed. Everybody was trying to comfort me. “I’m so sorry about your brother. He was a wonderful young man.” But no one could really understand the true nature of my pain. I would sit for hours on end in the swing behind the house, while potential buyers looked around. I couldn’t live where everything constantly reminded me of my love for Eric. It was too hard for the two of them, too.

I will have to find the strength to begin again, to make a new life, new dreams. I just wanted to sit here for a few more moments, to feel what you normally feel when you have to leave a place behind. I know I will never forget Eric, even if I will love someone else, which I very much doubt will happen. Nothing will be the same again. Nothing.