He stepped out of the shadows and walked towards me. Never before has he been so close to me, not even in my childhood. I was so scared that, when I wanted to scream, my voice wouldn’t leave my throat. It was only me and him, in that dark forest. He was getting closer by the second.
I wanted to run, but my body would deny receiving any command I gave it, so I was simply paralysed, frozen in place.
I heard him whisper something in a foreign, yet familiar language that I’ve only heard a couple of times in my whole few good hundreds years of life. It sounded like something ancient, sacred even. After saying this bizarre phrase, he took a step back and watched his work with admiration: leaves started floating everywhere, circling me; and the usual sound of leaves rustling slowly metamorphosed into a whisper which clearly resembled that eerie phrase.
I tried to step out of the circle, but the leaves drew closer to me, tightening like a wall; and strong trees started growing out of nowhere and everything around me became a cage. The leaves, the trees, the air…
“You can have a part of my powers if you join me and help me”, said to me the horned, shadowy figure, in a raspy, deep voice, smiling crazily.
I let my gaze fall on him, we locked our eyes and he must have read the terror in mine, as his smile widened. I was terrified thinking what would happen next and…
That’s when my alarm went off and I woke up, all sweaty and gasping for air. I walked to the mirror and checked myself out. I was still whole and human. I let a sigh of relief escape my lips.
I only noticed the green leaf in front of the huge mirror when I came back home, after a harder than usual day of work. There was a small picture of me braiding my hair, with that leaf in it, stuck to the top right corner of the mirror. So I assumed that it must have remained in my hair after the previous night’s show and it fell on the floor when I was doing my hair.
Trying to control my breath and keep my hands from shaking, I slowly bent down and picked up the leaf.
On its back, there were some golden, tiny letters, which were vanishing as I read them:
‘What kind of cage would you prefer? The one that human society puts you in each and every second of your miserable, unworthy co-existence with them? Or the one that you visited last night? Please come home, Ammit, if you have had enough of the Earth. You can find better “food” for yourself here. ‘
(Greetings from Below,
At least he wasn’t that mad at me, which made me relax. I rolled my eyes, since I hated it when he was right. Yeah, Earth was fun ‘n’ stuff, but the better “food” was home.
So, being grateful that, unlike ordinary plain humans, I had a choice, I stepped inside the mirror, unravelling my black wings and letting out my horns again. It felt good to be yourself. And it looked good, too.
Feeling like I’ve caused enough bad things on Earth (and knowing that Papa could safely handle the rest), I headed home.
Moral of the story: nowhere is better than home… even though you cone from Hell’s deepest dungeons.
Note: Ammit is an ancient Demoness name and it means “Soul Eater”.
As a (not willing to recover) bookaholic, I have come across a few good titles in my 14 years of experience with reading. Therefore, there are sooo many books that have changed my entire perception about life, made me become a better version of myself, inspired me and taught me something powerful and inspiring about life. So I thought why not say a few words about the ones that had the greatest impact on my life (either positive or negative) and maybe inspire and help other people as well?
Starting with the nonfiction genre, there are two titles which had shaped my mind set, helped me improve my life-style and gain important skills. “Atomic Habits” by James Clear and “The Good Psychopath’s Guide To Success” by Kevin Dutton and Andy McNab. Combined, these masterpieces have taught me more about the real world than school managed to do in almost 12 years! Both of them offer great pieces of advice, which has a scientific base and has been tested and experimented for a long time before being recommended to us. The reason why these books became bestsellers is far more solid than the reason “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” has. Unlike Robert Kiyosaki, Jordan Peterson, Napoleon Hill and all the other “writers” who talk too much without actually teaching you something applicable or useful, Mr. Clear and Mr. Dutton know what they are talking about and they explain it in the best possible way. Their books not only kick some motivation into the brain of a professional procrastinator, but they also teach you how to get rid of the toxicity in your life. I always like recommending these books to people that are not satisfied or happy with their current life-style because I know how much they have helped me and other millions of people struggling to make the sort of 180° change that their life needed.
Moving a little bit further, but not quite leaving the nonfiction area, I have to talk about Stephen King’s “On Writing”. This book is literally The Holy Bible of any aspiring writer. It talks about the King’s becoming and it also gives practical advice on how to improve your fiction writing. A nonfiction book teaching you how to write fiction, isn’t it funny?
Speaking of fiction and Stephen King, I feel the need to discuss a little about the works of this humanoid God. Unfortunately, I have laid hands on just a small amount of his writings, but they completely fascinated me. “IT” and “Gerald’s Game” were my first contact with the King’s superpowers. I found it an absolutely genius move to be able to write a whole 300 pages long novel about a woman handcuffed to a bed. King’s descriptions appear to be the only ones that I can read without getting bored to death. The same story goes with “IT”. 1368, that lovely little book has! And it took me three months to finish it. Three months during which Pennywise was a constant leitmotif of my dreams. Now, judging by me, that’s exactly what a Horror novel has to do to you in order to be called a masterpiece.
Sticking to the Horror genre, as it’s my favourite, I have to hand an honourable mention to Sir Edgar Allan Poe. He had inspired most of the Horror short stories that I have written on my blog. Reading his works has unleashed my darkest and toughest and cruellest type of creativity. Which made me capable of putting on paper something along the lines of anyone’s worst nightmares.
When it comes to fiction, my favourite genres are, you guessed it!, Horror and Crime Fiction. However, I have some favourite titles in other subgenres, as well. But the classics, such as “The Book Thief”, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, “Harry Potter” (how my depression was cured by J.K. Rowling’s life story and motivational speeches given through her characters, is absolutely fascinating to me!), “Mary Poppins” , “Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children” or “Christmas Carol”, will always be close to my heart. And I can’t afford passing by without reminding “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” or “Murder On The Orient Express”.
Another great classic which had a surprisingly powerful impact on my life is “The Picture Of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde. (Too bad Wilde was most probably gay, I would have played with an Ouija board and have a long-distance relationship with the dude.) And I guess I just said how much I adored that book. =)) Every single page of this work of art made me fall in love more and more with the whole concept of Art, with all the characters (except from Basil, he was being too boring) and most of the principles that I guide my life after right now, were inspired by His Greatness Oscar Wilde. And honestly, I don’t know if that’s a moral or immoral thing… I’ll have to think about it.
They say that writing requires “stealing” from other writers who are better than you. So the writers that I have “stolen” from are Stephen King, Oscar Wilde, J.K. Rowling and Neil Gaiman. Since Mr. Gaiman is the only one that I haven’t talked about yet, let me introduce you now in the fandom of “Good Omens”. I loved this book, as it is the only Fantasy novel presenting the Apocalypse in such a funny way. Also, the writing style, the word plays, the characters, everything simply amazed me!
As an ending — yeah, finally, the ending! — I will say one last phrase that will probably leave you thinking:
Maybe you won’t like this, but what you read has the power to shape your mind and impact your life in a greater way than you could ever imagine. Therefore, I suggest you to choose wisely the books on your wish list, as to not waste your (otherwise valuable and precious) time on books that don’t teach you anything worthy of that time (either a positive or negative lesson).
“Yeah, your personality is fine, not gonna lie, baby. But your body is even finer!”, he confessed, his eyes full of physical desire.
That’s one cut.
She yells in pain as the knife glides along her skin. But she doesn’t seem to be so bothered. She keeps crying out her internal pain. The physical one isn’t strong enough to make the mental one go away.
“You’re so beautiful, honey!”, another guy was telling her, as his breath was becoming heavier and she was feeling his pulse accelerate. ‘This isn’t one of those sweet compliments’, she thought to herself. ‘This is getting sexual. But I like it.’
‘Actually, I don’t. Not anymore.’
That’s another cut.
Hot tears streaming down her face, she reaches out a bleeding hand to grab the bottle of whiskey in front of her. There are approximately two more sips in it. She laughs shortly. She doesn’t remember how long it took her to empty that bottle. But apparently, she almost did. She takes a sip. And then she puts the bottle right back on the floor, where she took it from, having something added up to it: blood around its neck. It looks pretty much aesthetic.
“Shit, you’ve got that body and you’re telling me you’re underage??? Girl, I’d say you’re 20 or so!”
“Well, thanks for the compliment. But I’m 17…”
“Ohh… I see… then, I’m sorry little one… But I guess we’ll have to part ways.”
And that’s another cut.
For another jerk.
And another scream.
Not a scream of pain, though… a scream of rage. A growl.
Not giving a damn about the amount of blood that she is losing, she grabs the knife harder this time and begins sliding it around her thighs, making small, straight, short scratches one next to another, from the knee upwards to her hips.
Then she throws the knife away and growls again.
“If you only want me for this piece of shit that you call ‘a hot as hell body’, let’s see how much you’ll want me now, you FUCKERS!”, she shouts from the bottom of her lungs, not able to contain her rage anymore. She is feeling so fed up with being objectified, seen as a sex tool, not as a fucking person. So she scars her body, because she is curious.
Curious to feel the pain. Curious to feel the blade twist beneath her skin. Curious to see if anyone would ever want her with those scars. Curious to see how many people would push her away and think of her as being gruesome, instead of seeing her real beauty– which, of course, consists of her mentality and personality, not of something that can be as easily cut and degraded as paper.
She makes a considerable effort to place her trembling fingers around the neck of the whiskey bottle and lift it off the floor, put it to her mouth and swallow whatever alcohol was left inside the bottle. Her throat still burning, she gets up to her feet, losing her balance a little bit. After a few seconds, regaining her steadiness, she targets the wall in front of her and, without even thinking, she throws the bottle with as much strength as she’s capable to summon at this moment. The bottle smashes to thousands of pieces that are now scattered on the floor, everywhere around her. Still standing, in the middle of the glistening pieces of broken glass, she thinks of how the bottle represents a metaphorical comparison to her soul: emptied by someone and then shattered. Or a metaphorical comparison to her body: bloody and destroyed.
Not able to resist the urge to see her newest masterpiece, she starts running over the broken glass, again not giving a fuck about how the tiny pieces are stabbing at her feet. Her direction is set towards the bathroom, to the biggest mirror in her house. She is taking off her clothes and throws them away as she climbs the stairs, leaving bloddy footprints behind her. Now naked, she opens the bathroom door and then stops dead in her tracks, staring at the mirror on the opposite wall.
“Damn, this is bad!”, she whispers under her breath. Below her breasts, on the stomach, there was a long, trembled dark-red line. There was blood dripping from one of her thighs and from around her collarbone, where she had made a diagonal cut. She is thinking of her body as a chevalet at this point. Blood was the only paint she had available on stock.
No matter how horrifying it might look from the outside, she likes the updated version of her body. She feels satisfied at the thought that she will no longer have the opportunity to fall in love with someone who only wants her for her body and abandons her as soon as they find out that they can’t have it.
She smiles, content with her choice.
And then she moves to the sink to take out some bandages.
“… fondul comediilor lui Caragiale este rece și cinic. Realitatea ce el ne zugrăvește nu ne poate încălzi, necum să ne entuziasmeze; ea e repulsivă și va deveni, din ce în ce mai repulsivă cu cât omenirea va înainta pe calea progresului moral. În nici o operă clasică nu vei găsi situațiuni de valoare ca cele pe care dramaturgul nostru le primește în acțiunea dramatică– le primește și le menține cu seninătatea cea mai desăvârșită– chiar la sfârșitul și după sfârșitul ei.”
Scriitor cu opere reprezentative în toate genurile majore ale literaturii, I.L. Caragiale se evidențiază, însă, prin opera sa dramaturgică și, mai ales, prin forța comediilor sale. El își găsește un apărător important în persoana lui Titu Maiorescu care, în “Comediile domnului Caragiale” îi laudă spiritul critic ascuțit, precum și puterea reprezentării unei întregi societăți, cu moravurile și subtilitățile ei, dramaturgul fiind un creator al unui univers ce-l oglindește pe cel al timpurilor contemporane lui.
Reprezentată pe scenă pentru prima dată în 1884, comedia “O scrisoare pierdută” de I.L. Caragiale este a treia dintre cele patru scrise de autor, operă de căpătâi a genului dramatic în literatura română, care-și păstrează actualitatea prin perpetuarea moravurilor unei anumite categorii sociale de la o epocă la alta, ambițiile, privilegiile, dorința de avere și de ascensiune socială neffind limitate la o singură epocă.
Opera literară “O scrisoare pierdută” de I.L Caragiale este o comedie de moravuri, în care sunt satirizate aspecte ale societății contemporane autorului, fiind inspirată din farsa electorală din anul 1883.
Comedia este o specie a genului dramatic, care stârnește râsul prin surprinderea unor moravuri, a unor tipologii umane sau a unor situații neașteptate, având un final fericit și, adesea, un rol moralizator. Personajele comediei sunt inferioare în privința însușirilor morale, conflictul comic fiind realizat prin contrastul dintre aparență și esență. Sunt prezente formele comicului: umorul, ironia și diferite tipuri de comic (de limbaj, de situație, de caracter, de nume).
Încadrându-se în categoria comediilor de moravuri, prin satirizarea unor defecte omenești, piesa prezintă aspecte din viața politică– lupta pentru putere în contextul alegerilor pentru Cameră, pe fundalul căreia se realizează contrastele dintre aparență și esență a diferitelor personaje– și din viața de familie– relația dintre Tipătescu și Zoe, pretext al piesei.
De la stâlcirea neologismelor, la diferite nume care trădează caracteristici ale personajelor, comicul este scos în evidență de-a lungul întregii piese, fiind doar un element care vizează, alături de altele, precum finalul fericit ori radiografia socială efectuată prin intermediul personajelor-stereotip, corupția politicianismului românesc.
Derivând din caracterul de comedie de moravuri al operei, tema principală este cea a vieții degradante a claselor conducătoare și imoralității din viața politică și privată, sesizate de dramaturg. Acestora li se adaugă teme secundare precum corupția, lupta pentru putere, prostia, ambiția și parvenirea.
Două secvențe reprezentative pentru tema operei sunt cea a intrigii și cea care conturează conflictul secundar.
Scena inițială din actul I prezintă personajele Ștefan Tipătescu și Ghiță Pristanda citind ziarul lui Nae Cațavencu, “Răcnetul Carpaților” și numărând steagurile. Scena intrigii este declanșată de apariția lui Trahanache cu vestea deținerii scrisorii de amor de către adversarul politic. Acesta este convins că scrisoarea este un fals și, orb în fața realității, se teme că Zoe ar putea afla de mișelia lui Cațavencu. Naivitatea, fie ea reală sau simulată a lui Zaharia Trahanache și calmul său contrastează cu zbuciumul amorezilor Tipătescu și Zoe Trahanache, care acționează impulsiv și contradictoriu pentru smulgerea scrisorii de la șantajist. Scena intrigii conturează cel mai bine degradarea moravurilor vieții de familie prin adulterul comis de Zoe și Ștefan Tipătescu, dar și corupția vieții politice prin introducerea motivului șantajului.
Cealaltă scenă reprezentativă este scena de debut a actului secund, desfășurată cu o zi înaintea alegerilor, când grupul Farfuridi-Brânzovenescu se teme de trădarea prefectului. Actul continuă cu cererea lui Tipătescu ca Pristanda să-l aresteze pe Cațavencu și să-i percheziționeze locuința pentru a-i găsi scrisoarea și ordinul contradictoriu dat de Zoe (ce încearcă să-l convingă pe Tipătescu să-l susțină pe Cațavencu pentru funcția de deputat în schimbul scrisorii), sfârșind cu o depeșă primită de la centru care solicită alegerea unui alt candidat pentru colegiul al II-lea.
Patru elemente ale textului dramatic, ilustrative pentru conturarea viziunii despre lume sunt deznodământul, caracterizarea personajelor, comicul și dialogul.
Deznodământul aduce rezolvarea conflictului inițial, dat fiind că scrisoarea ajunge la Zoe, iar Cațavencu se supune condițiilor ei. Satirizarea societății pe care și-o propune dramaturgul este accentuată prin intervenția unui nou personaj, Dandanache, care întrece stupiditatea și lipsa de onestitate a candidaților locali. Propulsarea lui politică este cauzată de o poveste asemănătoare: și el găsise o scrisoare compromițătoare. Este ales în unanimitate și totul se încheie cu o festivitate condusă de Cațavencu, unde adversarii se împacă. Astfel, se trasează profilul unei elite conducătoare profund corupte, între reprezentanții căreia nu există nuanțe morale, ci doar diferențe de interese– finalul este o sărbătoare comică a degradării umane, un final fericit care afirmă imposibilitatea vreunei schimbări.
Caracterizarea personajelor depășește cadrul comediei clasice, acestea fiind individualizate prin particularități de limbaj, caracter, nume, dar și prin combinarea elementelor de statut.
Comicul își găsește în piesă mai multe surse, care servesc intenției autorului de a satiriza defectele omenești puse în evidență pe fundalul campaniei electorale.
Dialogul este principalul mod de expunere, prin care personajele își dezvăluie intențiile, sentimentele și opiniile, prin intermediul său prezentându-se evoluția acțiunii dramatice. În această operă comică întâlnim, pe lângă dialog și monologul dramatic (în discursurile electorale ale lui Cațavencu și Farfuridi).
Prin urmare, lumea oferită de I.L. Caragiale este una a arivismului fără scrupule, unde personajele au ca singură maximă pe cea care susține că “scopul scuză mijloacele”, urmărind doar parvenirea: obținerea de funcții publice respectate și atingerea unui statut social nemeritat.
O scrisoare pierdută este o comedie de moravuri sociale și politice, scrisă de dramaturgul român Ion Luca Caragiale, în anul 1884, publicată în revista „Convorbiri literare”.
Comedia O scrisoare pierdută este împărțită în patru acte. Textul este conceput ca o succesiune dinamică de replici, iar principalul mod de expunere este dialogul. Intervențiile autorului, adică indicațiile scenice sau didascaliile, sunt prezente de obicei la începutul comediei, al unui act, sau sunt intercalate replicilor. Ele se referă la cadrul acțiunii, statutul personajelor, mimica și gestica acestora etc, și utilizează ca moduri de expunere descrierea și narațiunea.
Criticii teatrali ai timpului au socotit însă piesa lipsită de calități literare (Ionescu-Gion, Dassè, Claymoor), excepție făcând Ollănescu-Ascanio care a scris favorabil despre piesă. O apreciere favorabilă despre „O scrisoare pierdută”, scrie, fără a semna, și Gh. Panu în ziarul Lupta în decembrie 1884, cu ocazia reprezentării piesei la Naționalul ieșean.
Pe cei prezenți la reprezentațiile din 1884, Scrisoarea pierdută i-a impresionat prin acțiunea ei vie și prin forța extraordinară a satirei politice. Chiar detractorii lui Caragiale nu i-au putut refuza cunoașterea meritelor indiscutabile și în acest sens a fost nevoit să scrie în 1903, în “Causeris littèraires”, Pompiliu Eliade, pentru care Scrisoarea pierdută era „cea mai bună bucată literară care s-a scris vreodată în limba română“, capodopera de necontestat a repertoriului nostru dramaturgic, o piesă clasică, în măsură să consacre nu numai un autor, ci și o întreagă literatură.
Cel mai mare dramaturg și scriitor satiric al literaturii noastre, I.L.Caragiale, s-a născut la 30 ianuarie 1852 în satul Haimanale din județul Dâmbovița, ca fiu al lui Luca și al Ecaterinei Caragiale. Primele clase le urmeaza la Ploiești, la Școala Domnească, păstrând o pioasă amintire învățătorului Basil Dragoșescu, de la care a învățat întâia dată tainele gramaticii și respectul pentru limba românească.
După 1870, timp de câțiva ani, preocupările lui Caragiale se aseamănă cu ale marelui său contemporan și prieten de mai târziu, M. Eminescu: În 1870 Caragiale este copist la Tribunalul Prahova, iar în 1871 este sufleur și copist al Teatrului Național din București.
Anul 1873 este important în evoluția lui Caragiale, întrucât odată cu prima proba a înclinațiilor sale satirice, debutând la revista umoristică Ghimpele, cu articole și note polemice ascuțite, în care ataca cu fronda juvenilă pe Maiorescu, Macedonski s.a.
Anul 1884 trebuie reținut ca data memorabilă în care apare capodopera dramaturgiei noastre clasice, comedia O scrisoare pierdută, reprezentată în același an. La cei 32 de ani, Caragiale dăduse literaturii noastre : O noapte furtunoasa, Conu Leonida față cu reacțiunea și O scrisoare pierdută.
Între 1888-1889, aproape un an, Caragiale funcționează ca director general al teatrelor. Însă relațiile cu Junimea si cu Titu Maiorecu incep sa se răcească și Caragiale începe să devină, pentru liberali și conservatori, deopotrivă, un scriitor dificil și incomod.
În 1901 apare volumul Momente și schite și în același an are loc cunoscuta acuzație de plagiat adusă de Caion Al. Ionescu, publicist mediocru, necinstit și amator de scandaluri, înfierat în fulminanta pledoarie a lui Delavrancea.
In 1904, beneficiind de o moștenire considerabilă, Caragiale pleacă la Berlin, unde se va stabili până la moarte. Placarea lui din țară nu trebuie privită cu superficialitate, ca fiind simplu rezultat al unei moșteniri.
Cea mai emoționantă dovadă a legăturii trainice cu țara adevărată, cu poporul năpăstuit pe care l-a slujit cu devotament și ale cărui dureri și năzuințe le-a oglindit cu atâta pătrundere într-o însemnată parte a operei sale, o constituie pamfletul 1907 din primăvară până-n toamnă, cel mai aspru rechizitoriu al vremii, cu privire la marile răscoale țărănești.
I.L.Caragiale moare la Berlin, in 1912, 22 iunie, lăsând în urma sa o operă bogată și strălucitoare, o adevărată oglindă a societății românești de la sfârșitul secolului al XIX-lea.
I.L.Caragiale este, înainte de toate , marele dramaturg al literaturii noastre, autor al comediilor O noapte furtunoasă, O scrisoare pierdută, Conu Leonida față cu reacțiunea și D-ale carnavalului, precum și al dramei Năpasta. Ceea ce dă o neobișnuită vigoare creațiilor sale dramatice este în primul rând conținutul lor deosebit de valoros, prin ascuțita lui actualitate în vremea autorului.
Dar fără îndoială că genul dramatic al lui Caragiale și-a găsit expresia desăvârșită în O scrisoare pierdută. Ceea ce face ca această piesă să treacă înaintea tuturor celorlalte este, înainte de orice, conținutul de idei. Reprezentarea piesei O scrisoare pierdută pe marile scene ale lumii (Moscova, Berlin, Varșovia, Paris, Buenos Aires) atestă, indiscutabil, universalitatea ei.
De o factură cu totul deosebită este Năpasta. De data aceasta râsul este convertit în compasiune, iar satira în meditație și profunzime psihologică.
Dupa 1890 repertoriul lui Caragiale se îmbogățește cu proza de analiză și cu povestiri care ilustreaza și de astă dată, bogatele resurse ale marelui scriitor.
Nuvele :O făclie de Paști, Păcat și În vreme de război.
Povestiri : Kir Inulea, La hanul lui Mînjoală, Calul dracului, Abu Hassan.
“Stop it, you BITCH! Can’t you see that you’re destroying yourself?” , the Rational One screamed at the top of her lungs. She was so tired of this… the old bullshit: the bitch falls in love, gets rejected, she writes a story in which she kills the jerk that made her suffer. It already became a boring routine for the Rational One.
“I’m not destroying myself, honey. It’s just… you know, it’s so nice to be in love! All those butterflies and—”
“Those butterflies are fucking WARNING SIGNS that you’re gonna get yourself in serious trouble!!! That’s not love, stupid! That’s TOXIC ADDICTION!”
“No… it’s not addiction. It might be toxic, but it’s not even close to addiction.”
“THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT??”
“No, love’s not the word… I’d say caring is more likely to fit.” the Lunatic One answered, in her deep, dreamy voice.
“How do you know it, dummy? Have you ever been in love? Do you know what being in love means?”
The Rational One was beginning to lose all that little amount of self control that she had left from all the past similar experiences. She wanted to tell the Lunatic that what she’s doing is not healthy for her. But will that head-in-the-clouds bitch ever understand it??
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. Honestly. And I know that love is mostly a “grown-up” thing. And in a way, I like to think that I am beginning to grow up for real. All the boys I’ve “loved” before… I simply wanted them. And I know that because I’ve always tried to have them in a romantic way. But this time? All I need from this guy is that he would keep talking to me. I don’t even care about the fact that I’m not special for him, or that what we had wasn’t so special. I don’t care if he’ll want to talk to me simply as to a friend, or even colder than that. I’m not asking for his attention. I just need to know he’s there.”
The Lunatic was making a point. A good one, actually. Maybe she wasn’t so good at explaining, but let me try and see if I can fix it. So you will understand that she was actually honest when she said that she was not “addicted” to him.
You see… there is a fine line between falling in love and developing an addiction for a person. A line which the Lunatic planned not to cross this time. When being addicted to someone, you want that someone all for yourself. You don’t care if they’re happy in that place or not. All that matters to you is to have them, in the way you want to have them. However, falling in love with someone, makes you wish all the best for them. It makes you be sad when they are sad and happy when they are happy. It makes you want to give them everything they need. Freedom included. Space included. Time included. All those things that you usually wouldn’t give to someone you’re addicted to, but you’d give them anytime to someone you care for.
“Well… yes. You’re right, I can’t say the opposite. But it’s toxic, little one. It’s slowly killing you on the inside. And you can’t deny it.”
“Not really. But even if it is, this is the beauty of life… giving without receiving or expecting anything back. Feeling. All the types of things. From love to rejection, from happiness to sorrow. Every single one of these feelings is beautiful in its own way.”
“How can you say that suffering because of a jerk is a beautiful feeling?”
The Rational raised an eyebrow. From this point, though, she knew for sure that she was just wasting her time. Because if the Lunatic gets her mind fixed on something, it takes hard work to convince her that she’s not right. However, the Rational was getting even more annoyed at the thought that, this time, the Lunatic may be right.
“The greatest works of art were born because of the artist’s grief.” , the Lunatic stated firmly, conjuring her dreamy voice again. “Besides, suffering is a big word. I’m not a drama queen, so I’m not gonna use it.”
“Alright, I see… getting hurt and then romanticizing it… Are you some undercover poet, dummy?”
“We all are a bit poetical when we feel something intensely. Fair enough, most poets come to light only when they are hurt. But some of us can romanticise happiness, too.”
“Wait… I don’t understand anything you’re trying to philosophy about. So just… tell me how you feel, dumb ass!”
“I’m happy for him, you know? That he told me “we” couldn’t quite exist. He would have ended up in a relationship that he wouldn’t have been happy in. So I’m glad he told me straightforward that I didn’t stand a chance with him. I didn’t want to push this thing. If he’s not comfortable with it, that’s totally fine. And I want him to be happy, not caring if this happiness will be due to me or to someone else. He deserves it. At the same time though, I can’t lie saying that I’m not hurt. I am. In the slightest bit, but I am. Maybe just for now. But my experience so far (and him, of course) taught me that it’s the beauty of life. How can you know when you’re happy, if you never get to experience what sadness feels like?”
“But you got to experience it, I mean the sadness… many times. Too many for your own good, might Iadd.”
The Rational One rolled her eyes. She did not enjoy losing an argument with the Lunatic. But she knew she could do nothing more than trying to open her eyes upon the matter at hand.
“So what? Can you ever say you’ve had enough of love, enough of happiness? No! The same happens when it comes to negative feelings. You can never get enough of those. Especially when you’re young. There are hundreds of different ways to suffer. There are thousands of reasons why you could suffer. Just as there are hundreds of different ways to be happy, and thousands of reasons why you could be happy.”
“You know what? I like how it sounds when you say it… But I still suggest we should kill the fucker. Not for real, you know? Just… in here. In your mind space. Like we did before, with all the other jerks that made you suffer. Remember?”
The Lunatic managed a small smile and a little laughter. It sounded coming from far, far away, as if it was time travelling. She closed her eyes and fell silent for a couple minutes. The Rational One waited, hoping that her words would finally get to the Lunatic.
But the Lunatic was set on her idea. Behind her closed eyes, she envisioned the Rational’s suggestion. Soon enough, she found out she couldn’t picture anything like that. With all of the others, it has been so simple, seeing herself with a knife in her hand, or with a gun, or preparing a poisonous drink. In spite of her usual need to kill people in her mind space, she was glad that she found herself unable to even picture anything close to that with him.
She laughed again. More lively, this time. She opened her eyes and smiled. The Rational One knew it was going to be over, so she stamped her foot on the floor in the way a little child would do it. The Lunatic One’s smile widened. She was already feeling happier.
“I want him alive in my mind space, sweetie. He’s nothing like “all the other jerks”. And he didn’t make me suffer. In fact, I really enjoyed his presence.”
“That’s the only place I could relive what has happened between us. So let me keep that. Thank you!”
Her body was floating downwards, slipping deeper and deeper and deeper underwater. All the air inside of her lungs had gone out, leaving in only the dirty water in the lake. Her brain was close to shutting down. She was aware of the fact that she was drowning. But she was at ease with this information.
It was a huge paradox going on in there. She was afraid of depths, and that included, of course, deep water. Yet here she was, floating down, down, down…
She’s always been scared to go swimming into that lake. But now, she simply got tired of staying near the shore. So she dived in.
She often associated that lake with her anxiety about life. She wanted to face it. But she was too scared to. But only now did she realise that it was actually quite simple.
All you had to do was just dive in.
Nothing to worry about.
Just go with the flow.
I don’t know how to swim.
See? It’s easy. Nothing else to worry about.
These were the thoughts that spun and swirled in her mind, during the last few moments of her life. She was trying to block out the train of memories that wanted to pass behind her eyes. She didn’t want to see it again, to live it again, to feel it again.
It was enough.
They say it’s ok not to be ok. So why wouldn’t it be ok to die? Everyone is “not ok” in their own way. Some people are “not ok” by eating too much. Others are “not ok” by crying too much, faking their happiness too much, sleeping too much, avoiding everyone else too much.
Too much. It means more than enough. It sounds like abusing of all these things. But dying? It’s never too much.
Plângea, în timp ce stătea ghemuită în cel mai întunecat colț al camerei. Nu era prima dată când se găsea în situația asta. Era obișnuită cu acest sentiment. Era obișnuită chiar și cu sentimentul că nu era singură în locul acela, chiar dacă, teoretic, ea locuia singură. Simți o adiere de vânt venind dinspre fereastră. Nu-și amintea s-o fi deschis. Știa că era aproape… mai aproape ca niciodată… mult prea aproape pentru ca nervii ei să nu cedeze; însă nu putea fi sigură că nu au făcut-o deja.
Simțise ziua aceasta venind încă de când cumpărase casa aia blestemată. Se întreba de ce fusese atât de fraieră încât să nu ia în considerare spusele vecinilor ei… dar îi plăcuseră prea mult oglinzile care erau vizibile aproape peste tot prin casă. Nu le putuse rezista. Și nu era prima care picase în capcana asta… Cu siguranță n-avea să fie nici ultima.
Era speriată de moarte și se întreba dacă ăsta o fi jocul lor prostesc… s-o țină în suspansul ăsta, iar apoi să atace când ea se aștepta mai puțin.
Avea un bine-cunoscut sentiment de dèja-vu, care se accentuă în momentul în care privi în oglinda de pe peretele din fața ei. Acolo văzu ușa camerei întredeschizându-se și o mână acoperită de o mănușă neagră, din piele, ținând ceva ce avea, în lumina lunii pline ce se revărsa pe fereastră, o strălucire metalică.
Ea își închise ochii și începu să se roage să fie rapid. Se uită la ceasul ei digital. Ora 01:20. Șapte minute nu păruseră niciodată o eternitate, până atunci.
Îi simți respirația rece din ce în ce mai aproape de ea. Un fior i se târî pe șira spinării asemenea unui șarpe. Asta avea să fie. Așa avea să se termine.
Brusc, deschise ochii. Visase. Dar se afla în același loc, ascunzându-se. Se uită la ceas. Ora 01:13. Se apropia. Iar de data asta, nu mai era un vis… Avu din nou sentimentul de dèja–vu, mai ales atunci când se uită în oglinda fixată pe peretele din fața ei și văzu bine-cunoscuta mână acoperită de o mănușă neagră, din piele, împreună cu obiectul cu o strălucire metalică ce avea să-i fie fatal.
Se gândea să se roage, însă făcuse asta de atâtea ori în visele ei, încât acum nu mai simțea nevoia. Pentru ea, era ca și cum urma să se întâlnească cu un vechi prieten. Se uită din nou la ceas. Ora 01:20. Șapte minute nu mai păruseră de mult o eternitate.
Îi simți respirația rece apropiindu-se de ea, simți fiorul pe șira spinării… și nu-si dorea decât să se termine repede.
— Ți-a fost dor de mine?, a întrebat-o o voce pițigăiată, ce parcă venea direct din oglindă.
A încercat să-i spună că nu-l mai văzuse doar de 14 minute, însă vocea i-a fost sugrumată de lacrimi, iar mai apoi de o mână acoperită cu o mănușă neagră, ce încă purta amintirea obiectului cu strălucire metalică, ce urma de altfel să-i distrugă trupul…
A knife. A trembling hand. A sweet-scented candle. Vanilla, I think it was. Or was it tropical flowers? Whatever… details. I can’t recall that scent. I feel it, but I can’t quite place my finger on the name of the aroma.
Anyway… where was I? Oh, telling you about my day, dear Diary. So it went just like a normal day.
How I love it! Writing with invisible ink! I keep my secrets so well-hidden in here! Not even I myself can understand. So if I were to make a plan about hiding a dead body, this would be the best place. No one would bother to read an empty, old notebook, right?
The problem is that I remember I started writing something here yesterday… but I don’t remember what it was.. Was it…? No, it couldn’t have been that. I swore to myself to never speak about it with anyone. Not even to you, dear Diary. I’m sorry, old friend. This secret I shall keep away from your rusty pages. I can’t bring myself to do it. I really hope I didn’t begin to tell you about that.
I started writing between your yellow pages years ago, dear Diary. When you were new. And had white pages. And a nice, colourful cover. And you know me better than anyone. Do you know what I wrote yesterday? Or the other day? Of course you do. I, on the other hand, don’t. Do you remember what I wrote last week? Last month? Last year? I do, but only vaguely. I can’t help laughing when I think that I remember that only because I have been far more mentally sane than I am now.
I’m wondering if I’ve lost my mind. It might have happened. Because of the tragic event that occurred on the 10th of August. You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Well, sadly, guess what: nor will you ever know, old friend. Everything that happened that night will be clearly known only by me. I will go into the grave without having told this to anyone.
Where the hell is my mind??? I even forgot about you. You were lucky that I saw you while unpacking my things. And lucky I was, too, for finding my pen with invisible ink. I couldn’t write here without it. Why was I unpacking, you may ask. Obviously, I had to pack first, right? I did. I moved out of the old house. They almost caught me.
Those guys… they were ugly as hell, let me tell you that. None of them were worth even a please-don’t-let-the-Police-catch-me fuck. I have my own standards.
Lucky enough, I didn’t need to fuck with any of them. They didn’t see me. I was as invisible as this ink, I guess.
But I ran away. They almost caught me. Thank God they didn’t. I wonder if they know who to search for.
It seems like I did something bad, dear Diary. But I don’t know what.
I promised not to tell you something. But I don’t remember what it was… the chocolate that I stole from my mom before I moved out? I should call her and let her know that I took it. I don’t want her to get scared at the thought that a stranger broke into the house.
I don’t like it in here, dear Diary. It’s too much light. Here, the sun shines too strongly every day. Funny how I sound like a vampire. Funny how I even drank blood. What do you mean, whose blood? I don’t even know.
Wait… I am having a fit of laughter right now. I simply confused it, my dear friend. I- I literally thought it was apple-juice. Or Cranberry juice?
I love cranberries. I’m going to buy some, actually. I’m leaving for the market.
Dear Diary… I’m bombed. Literally drunk as fuck. I’m having fit after fit of laughter out of nothing. You know why? Cause I figured it would be good to make myself a smoothie with cranberries and Vodka. Turns out it tastes better than I expected. But it killed me. I’ve no idea how I can still write. But behold, a wonder! I can!
What was I saying? Oh yeah. Cranberries. Have I ever told you, dear Diary, why I love them? They have the same colour as blood. And who doesn’t love a good drink? I figure cranberries can do a good drink, regardless of what you mix them with. And blood does, too.
Have I told you that I drank her blood? I don’t think I did. My hands were shaking. I remember I told you that. The knife did some strange twist in my hand… and guess where it landed! Can you guess? Wait, I have to stop laughing. Why the fuck am I laughing so hard at my own jokes? I’m crazy, dear Diary. Let me tell you that. I know it for sure. Bat shit. Maniac. Lo-co!!
Blood tastes good. It’s soft, you know? Sweet but salty. It’s got a smooth texture. Slips down your throat easier than any shot of alcohol. I indulge myself in a nice little drink from time to time. I allow myself a minute or two of pampering. I deserve to feel good. Don’t therapists say it, too? My therapist used to say that.
Before I killed her, that is.
And did I do anything wrong, dear friend? It was purely therapeutic. It helped me cope with my emotions. I got to understand them better. I got to understand my needs and fulfill them, as she used to say.
Where did the knife come from? That’s something I don’t recall. A detail, I suppose.
I’m screwed. I’m fucking screwed. They’re here! I mean, at the door. They’re bangin’ on it. I locked all the doors in the apartment. I’m in the bathroom. I know they’ll find me, eventually, but I don’t want them to take me away. I am a free soul. They can’t take my freedom away. I won’t allow them to.
My hands are bleeding as I write this. The blood makes a bit of the invisible ink become rather visible. But only in some places. Just a couple of letters are showing.
Dear Diary, with my last powers, I want to share with you and only you my secret. Before I die, I want you to know, old friend. You ought to. You’ve been here for me when no one was. You will continue to be, long after I’m gone. Please keep our confidentiality the way my therapist couldn’t.
Coming to think about it, dear Diary, I didn’t kill her because she broke the patient-therapist confidentiality, or because she was not helping me. Oh, she did help me a lot! She did help me realise who I am, what I am and why it is so hard for people to stick around with me. I’m a born killer.
I always loved the taste of my own blood (and of others, when I got the occasion). I enjoyed going hunting with my dad when I was a kid. I enjoyed seeing the cowards and those inferior to me suffer. I guess that’s the animalistic part in human behaviour that hasn’t– nor will ever– change. I always…
But that’s another story. Where was I? Oh, therapy and therapists. And dead therapists.
You see, she was helping me a lot, this woman. She was so kind to me. So sweet, so polite. Too kind, too sweet, too polite, if you asked me. Ah fuck! I can’t feel my hands! They’re just… numb. And I think they’re in… I must be quiet and finish my story.
My nervous, dying handwriting must be looking hideous. Luckily, no one will see it. So now she’s dead. Somehow, I decided to follow her advice and meet my needs, accept and embrace them. And my biggest need was the need of blood. After slicing her up like a baker would slice bread, I made a canvas out of the walls of her office. Everything was so quiet… I enjoyed the serenity that Death brings to the table. After all, everyone needs to bring something to the table, right?
I brought Miss Evanna. Death brought me peace. But not for long. Anyways… I remember having unleashed my art… Oh, how clearly I see it now, as my whole life passes in front of my blurry, unfocused eyes. I made a canvas out of the office walls. Yes, I did that. I painted rivers of blood, and smiley faces, and bleeding hearts and… oh, that’s how they caught me…
Like every artist, I left my signature in the bottom right of my work…. I wrote my name… how stupid I was!
Uhh… I hate myself for being so stupid! But it’s okay. Death will embrace me even though I’m stupid. Why is everything getting dark? I’m scared of the dark… I also hate the light, but that’s another story. I wish I could write in your blood-stained pages until my last moment, dear Diary. But I don’t think I’ll be able to. I’ll try. But I don’t…
I hear their footsteps. They’re close… Fuck it! I don’t want to be saved… she tried to save me. But she failed. Actually. She was my salvation. Jesus! I don’t remember when was the last time the Voices were so quiet… the last time my thoughts were so clear… Wait. I do. When I cut her throat. Yes, that was it.
She saved me. She might have died not knowing it. But she saved me. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be breaking free from here right now.
I’m going to faint. I struggle to stay some more, write something… I have to write this. I have to leave with a joke. Like my favourite actors. I ought to leave people feeling good when the curtain closes. What people?
Moral of the story: get yourselves a therapist, fuckers! You all need one! You think you’re mentally sane???? Bitch, you can’t be! You’re not as mad as me. But you are still fucked up! Everyone is!!!
Shit, I gotta put the pen down. If I don’t, I’ll stay around longer than I planned. They’ll find me. I’m laughing too hard at my own fucking joke! I’m nuts! I’m…
“DEAD! SHE’S FUCKING DEAD!”
“Wait, what? Did you check her pulse?”
“Of course I did!”
“Yo… what the fuck is this mess?”
“The bitch killed herself…”
“Hudson, take your phone out and record me.”
“Yes, sir. Speak!”
“We have arrived at the killer’s house and she’s swimming in a pool of blood! She was a fucking maniac! We heard her laughter mere moments ago. She’s cut her wrists open, from the articulation of the hand, to the one of the elbow, on both arms. There’s an old, colourless notebook thrown into the bathtub and it’s all full of blood. There’s a once white but now dark red pen blocked in the sink. This whole place looks like the Red Room and it makes me shiver. She was definitely a schizophrenic but was not given the help she needed. I feel sorry for her. We’ll call for a team of criminologists to see if they can identify any information about her, apart from what we know now. Hudson, let’s get outta here. Mission accomplished… kind of. You’ll write the report!”