It had now been many months since those peculiar and mysterious confessions tormented me. I couldn’t tell where they were coming from or the reason for me being their target, but the weight of every word dropped felt like a bomb in an almost “torture-like” way.
Every night, as if falling from the sky, bits and pieces of words would slowly come out, along with some broken sentences that would be abruptly stolen by the thick dark and purple guilt. Guilt is one of the deadliest weapons one can bestow upon oneself. Yes, the shame, the guilt and the unspoken would send me their messages every night in whispers, sobs, tears and, ironically, in laughter sometimes, and I would lie there trying to make sense of the words I tried capturing from the thin air. What were they trying to tell me? And why me?
The words were tossed as petals in the wind. They would swoosh by my ears when awake and invade my eyes during my sleep.
“There are no secrets in life…”
“You can’t play with my feelings for you.”
“… just hidden truths…”
“You see, you just can’t.”
“…that we choose not to see…”
“Would you understand why, I wonder… Ha! I really don’t know…”
As they would surely taunt me night after night, I began to wait for them and make notes in a desperate attempt to make connection and correlate the heavy burden of those confession-like small talks. I now wanted it all, the full script, and the uncut version. I wanted the bloody message to show itself, I needed to unveil it, see it naked. I wanted to turn things around and no longer be just the outsider serving as listener and intruder. I had to control it! And as sure as the night would come, so would they.
“… those that lie beneath the surface. So deep down….”
“But how can you be so foolish, naïve even…?
“Is this what my life has been reduced to?”
“Have you really not yet noticed?”
My notes were now making me feel like I had turned into a private detective in my own home and in my own dreams – if they were dreams at all.
I could not share all I was learning, hearing, feeling with my wife. Not because she would feel, think or be sure that I was playing with her feelings. The reason was the exact opposite: that I never would do. How dared she think less of me. How dared she believe that I was incapable of understanding and knowing her. I knew her confessions! It was she who was giving me everything in those dark, hollow-filled nights! I understood it now and controlled the words, making them beg me to listen to their stories.
“… even I don’t know about anything anymore…”
“You just can’t do it because I don’t have any feelings for you. Simple.”
And there she was foolishly wronging me again. Mistaking me for some other person, for some stupid, blind and idiotic person – probably the one person her guilt derived from. This is how it worked out: I began to know every single thing there was to know about her and what I shouldn’t know, for we all have secrets, she would have ingenuously delivered to me at nights, as if serving me dinner. She was guilty and naive at the same time. I felt a sick pity.
I guess I cannot really blame her for not realizing that I knew all along, after understanding all those mischievous words that would finally sentence her.
I cannot really blame her for trusting one object as her friend. It was there, on that pillow that she would lie her head down every night after sordid events and let her guilt and pleasure be taken away in a relaxing sleep. Her pillow, probably her only friend, had sold her out: it had told me all her secrets on those dark nights she would come home late. The pillow was now my best friend and would hurriedly catch every word back from the room and cease the confusing talk as a humble, fearful servant to me whenever she entered the bedroom.
But the words had already been spoken and they would echo in my veins, burning me inside out.
I could no longer stand that dull, fake smile on her face, kissing me goodnight. Nor could the pillow. The disgust would invade both of us until that one night that bits and pieces of raging aches assaulted us!
I then quickly and decidedly sat up straight, ready to make sure she would never give me that smile ever again. There was no other option. She gave me none.
Her last action would be the feeling of her cold betrayer (my best friend) being solidly pressed against her face.
The last act of the pillow was to muffle her screams.
The kicks and desperate sighs in perhaps horror or agony for not being able to breathe anymore were my last and final episode. At least, the last one with her.