《Shadow of Mine》


 Ghost of the Past

    Apparently, memories work like this: every time you remember something, you actually remember the last time you remembered it. It¡¯s like taking a copy of a copy. Thus every time you re-remember you lose some details until eventually, it becomes vague. In psychology, this technique is sometimes used to effectively alter traumas and disturbing memories. But in daily lives, it¡¯s just the waves cleaning the sand.


    The best you can do to preserve something is never think about it, so it seems. Until the memories become too strong to run away from. Like a tidal wave you have been swimming from for years, finally overtakes you. When the waves come crashing down there is no more staying afloat, no more gasping for air. This all led me to write you this.


    I want to start with a clear memory, something tangible that can resist the vagueness of a fleeting mind. There is a photograph that I can use to explain my story in its simplest and purest form.


    The photo is taken back in 87 when I was three years old. The photo is dull and gloomy, partly its the weather, partly the quality of the devices back then. It shows me sitting on a swing, halfway up with my legs stretched towards the grey sky. There is a girl next to me who must have been around sixteen sitting casually. She wore a blue skirt and a dark t-shirt.


    The photograph, however, gained significance almost 15 years later. When I wish to start recounting my story that tangible omen had been sitting in a cupboard, waiting to be found like the thread of a story waiting to be unravelled.


    My mother and I were cleaning out the living room. Cleaning a room is a bit like cleaning your head, I always thought. You remove all the thoughts until you stay with white nothingness. There were cardboard boxes all over the floor which we filled with stuff. Rooms cluster with stuff like heads with pointless thoughts. I was storing stone statuettes of little gnomes when my mother gasped. I turned around, she walked across the room towards me. In her hand is the old photograph. Back then I had never seen it before, and I didn''t know yet how it would haunt my mind for months to come. But the look on her face, her eyes big and white and the paleness of her hollow cheeks revealed it all.


    ¡°Do you remember when I took this photograph?¡± she said. I shook my head as I pushed a box away and got up. ¡°It was somewhere in November, we went out for a walk and stopped at the playground.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t remember the playground,¡± I said. ¡°Where is it?¡±


    ¡°It would surprise me if you did, you were just a kid. They destroyed it pretty soon after the photograph was taken. Now it¡¯s a commune swimming pool¡±


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.We sat down next to each other on the old couch and stared at the glossy photo in her hand. There was me and a young girl sitting on a swing. The sand underneath the rubber seats was torn open from all the kids'' shoes stopping their momentum against the ground. There were flowers at the legs of the swing and plastic wrappings.


    ¡°When we went to the playground, you always were some kind of ecstatic. You yelled and ran around. This was only natural for kids to do it, so I thought. But this photograph made me change my mind.¡±


    ¡°How so? I don¡¯t understand, mom.¡± It seemed only normal kid behaviour. But my interest was sparked. I was always ready to look at the me of an earlier age. Like mountains missing the snow in summer.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t understand back then. You always seemed at ease there.¡± She said as her hands clenched in fists, so much I was afraid she would tear the photo in pieces. ¡°You could talk for hours. But you see, there was no one to talk to.¡±


    ¡°I don''t understand.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what the photograph revealed. Because there was no one there but us.¡± She waved the picture under my nose, her eyes were teary. ¡°Yet there she was!¡±


    I was dumbfounded. ¡°Of course not!¡± I said. You must have forgotten about her or something. By the time the photo was developed, you must have forgotten she was there.¡± I wondered if it was a joke, but she never was much of a joker. Especially not these days.


    ¡°Because the girl was dead, Barnabas. She hanged herself in the playground.¡±


    ¡°There is a date written on the back of the photograph. -November 1987- That girl died in 81.¡±


    Could I talk to ghosts? I didn¡¯t remember a single weird encounter. I was as plain as bread if anything. ¡°Do you remember what I talked about?¡± I asked my mother. She shook her head. I didn¡¯t dare to ask more of her, so we silently agreed to drop the matter and focus on the things at hand.


    We continued to gather stuff and filling up the boxes as Christmas had just ended. We didn¡¯t talk, not even whisper, so when the telephone rang we both looked up startled. Since I was closest, I picked up.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Barnabas! Let¡¯s hang today, huh?¡±


    I looked at my mother and shook my head comfortingly. She has stared at me like rabbits in a headlight. ¡°Can¡¯t today, Sam. We¡¯re busy.¡±


    ¡°You always say no, man. How long are you going to hole up there? I mean, you haven¡¯t been to school in over three weeks.¡±


    Anger filled my whole body. I would stay there until the end of time if I wanted to. This poisonous anger dazed me, but I couldn¡¯t let it engulf me. With a sigh, I asked; ¡°What about this weekend?¡±


    ¡°Cool, I will come to your house Saturday at six. And no excuses this time.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. See ya.¡±


    ¡°And say hi to your mom for me.¡±


    In fact, I was glad he called. Most of the people drop you like they drop a hot plate without gloves. But Sam wasn¡¯t scared to get burned.

 Forest

    There is no stopping the wheel of time. In the end, you can¡¯t avoid the hammer banging against the anvil, as you can¡¯t avoid being directly between the two. I wasn¡¯t sure if I could leave my mother alone so I asked her a hundred times if she wanted me to stay, but she always smiled and declined my offer. Now, many years later, I wonder if she should have said yes. So much happens for so little reason. You can find yourself staring at the abyss, not knowing how you got there. Perhaps a little shake of the head is how I got there in the end.


    The only thing I tried to occupy my mind with until that faithful Saturday, was reading HaraKiri. It was a book I found when we cleaned the living room and the only thing carrying me through the days.


    It was exactly six o¡¯clock when Sam knocked on the door. I didn¡¯t want to let him in, being worried about the empty room not being hospital enough. Years later I realised I just didn¡¯t want him to suffer even a tenth of what I suffered. I smiled at my mom, she smiled back and left the house.


    Sam smiled at me. So weird, I thought. How nothing seemed to have changed somehow. Sam was still wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, his hair was still blond and short. He cleaned his round glasses with his t-shirt like he always did. Behind him stood Mack. Mack was the biggest of us three, both in length and size. He had thick, bronzed arms and dark hair in a ponytail. He carried his backpack. I remember him listening to music that made the previous generation cover their ears. Samuel and Mike and Barnabas. Sam, Mack and me that¡¯s how it was since we were kids.


    Now they were seventeen, busy with school, weekend jobs, motorcycles. Links in a chain called life.


    I genuinely smiled, feeling the hot breeze on my face. I remember looking at them as we started walking towards the park west of my house. The little roads where people drove slow and kids cycled through whilst looking at the trees and saying; ¡°We¡¯re all cups filled with water, keeping each other half-full.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Mack asked. The little hairs in front of his forehead were sticking out like a messy halo.


    ¡°Well, if something bad happens, we share our reserves, keeping each other half-full.¡±


    ¡°You mean we only live half lives?¡± Sam asked.


    I nodded. I wasn¡¯t sure what I meant, it was just a feeling. We were silent for a while.


    ¡°I would like to be a hundred per cent,¡± Mack said.


    ¡°You can¡¯t, stupid,¡± Sam said. ¡°You just made him fifty per cent.¡±


    Mack frowned at him. ¡°So who brings me back to fifty per cent?¡±


    Sam laughed. ¡°Well, that¡¯s the point, it¡¯s an endless effort.¡±


    Sam. He was always wiser than us. It didn¡¯t surprise me he became a psychologist later in life.


    We talked about things to not have to talk about other things until we arrived at the park. In front of us stretched the enormous forests. I remember it smelled like tea. The freshness and the warm breeze, together with the birds singing over our heads brought a lightness even I couldn¡¯t resist.


    ¡°Remember all the times we played in these woods?¡± Mack said. We all missed the times of building camps and playing with sticks.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.Sam and Mack smiled at each other. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I asked. They said nothing and we continued through the foilage, following the little paths further west. The sun was getting lower when we stopped at a little clearing.


    ¡°Remember the weird girl we met here sometimes? With the flowers behind her ears?¡± Mack said. We all did, sometimes we followed her from the shadows of the bushes. We talked about her as if we knew her, though we never had the courage to say anything.


    ¡°Well, what better to have with you when reminiscing the past than a bottle of Jack?¡± Mack took off his bag and placed it on the ground. He ruffled in the bag and got out a bottle. White liquid sloshed against its glass casing.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think of glasses, but hey, the bottle is more than half full so nothing to remark there.¡± He joked.


    He gave me the bottle first. ¡°To fifty per cent!¡± I said. ¡°To fifty per cent,¡± they repeated.


    We each took a sip and passed it whilst keeping our cool.


    We started to feel quite elated. Enough so I dared to ask them about the old playground. ¡°Do you know anything about a suicide that happened twenty years ago?¡± I asked. Their faces said it all. ¡°Apparently a girl suicided there. I thought it would be a well-known thing. My mom¡­ she didn¡¯t want to tell me anything.¡±


    Sam frowned. ¡°Barry. I don¡¯t know man. I know these times are hard, but try not to search the darkness, you know?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Just¡­ don¡¯t go looking for monsters or keep yourself in a melancholy mood. Try to get to something positive. Like hanging with your friends.¡±


    I crossed my arms. ¡°So, you mean I should just forget this all and pretend nothing happened? That my father didn¡¯t die?¡±


    ¡°You know I don¡¯t mean that,¡± Sam said. He played with the bottle. ¡°I just don¡¯t wanna see you sad.¡±


    ¡°Well, sad is what you get now. What do you want me to do, huh?¡± I didn¡¯t even want to talk about the ghost anymore. This apparent connection we had.


    ¡°We¡¯re just scared you will fall away from us!¡± Mack said. ¡°Scared to lose you. We want to stick with you man. But we can¡¯t if you go into self-destruction mode.¡±


    ¡°So you take me to a forest to get drunk. Much more sensible.¡±


    Mack looked away at the trees and balled his fist. It was a telltale sign for trouble.


    ¡°What? You wanna kick the sad guy now? It doesn''t convene you anymore?¡±


    Mack looked away. He said nothing.


    Sam placed his hand on my shoulder. ¡°We are not the ones you¡¯re mad at.¡± And I couldn¡¯t argue with that.


    ¡°I¡¯m mad at the fucking world!¡± I snatched the bottle from his hands and gulped down some whatever was left. The alcohol burned my throat. I could even feel a waft in my nose. I coughed like crazy. ¡°Fuck.¡±


    ¡°Remember that girl?¡± Sam said after a while. ¡°I asked her out once.¡±


    We all laughed. ¡°You¡¯re kidding, right?¡± I said.


    ¡°Why not? You were way too self-conscious to do it.¡±


    ¡°Friendzone, the graveyard of romantic dreams,¡± Mack said. We laughed.


    ¡°Have you ever seen a cloud disappear?¡± I asked whilst looking up. ¡°I mean, maybe they¡¯re just going home.¡±


    Mack whistled. ¡°And the rain is just it''s tears ¡®cause they¡¯re homesick.¡±

 The entrance to the Maze

    According to K¨¹bler-Ross, grief works in five stages. First, there is denial, the initial shock and avoidance of the truth. Then follows anger and frustration. Not being able to grasp what happened, or why, people lash out. This is followed by bargaining. It seems that I found myself right there in the middle, after the trip to the forest. I still thought about death, like a mosquito in the night, sometimes it just buzzed in my ears. Impossible to let it go, it kept me up all night. But I tried to go outside, meet with Sam and Mack. But I felt hollowed out. Like a shedding skin, an empty husk. I was alone, who could truly understand me? Needless to say, I didn¡¯t feel ready for school yet. But I helped my mother where I could.


    The thought of the girl that hung itself continued to linger in my mind. I decided to go to the library in search of old newspapers, or someone old enough to remember the story.


    I tried to enjoy the short walk to the main street, passing the thrift shops and bars. Passing the ice-cream shops and the hip boutiques that screamed for attention in colours too bright.


    At least the library was not frivolous. It was old and bureaucratic. The interior seemed to be made in one, dark, boring wood. The lights were dusty and dull. At the desk there was an older lady, I asked her for the newspapers since there were no signs.


    ¡°For what purpose?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Research,¡± I said. She bowed her head ever so slightly and blinked. Her eyeshadow was purple. ¡°For school I imagine. Well, try not to damage anything.¡±


    I gave her a short nod as she took a key and led me to a separate room. ¡°What year?¡± she asked.


    ¡°1980.¡±


    I filled in my name on some document and she led me to the room behind the counter. It lead to a small room with lots of drawers against the wall. The free space in the middle was around the size of my kitchen. She turned on the lights and showed me the 1980  drawers. She then left without a sound. I remember gulping and thinking. The answer is in here somewhere.


    There were but three different newspapers.  I quickly read the front page and then searched for the right stories. I quickly noticed the layout was the same on all of them, still, I advanced slowly. I was around halfway when the old lady returned. Her steps were precise but slow.


    ¡°Did you find what you were looking for?¡± she asked. I shook my head. For a moment I doubted sharing my trust in her. But in the end, she was just a woman who I¡¯d never meet again. When she almost passed the doorway I said. ¡°Do you know something about a death?¡± I asked. ¡°A girl, around sixteen that hung herself?¡±


    She turned around and her face became pale. ¡°I see. Well, you could have asked me from the start, Barney.¡± I frowned. ¡°So, can you help me?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Why do you want to know about that? You must have barely been around the time of the events.¡± She walked towards the drawer and pulled some newspapers out. Then focused on year 81, just to go back to 79. She started in October, however. ¡°Yes, there it is.¡±


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.On the front page was the girl from the photo. She grinned, showing her false teeth. Standing next to a large tree and a white car was the girl from the photograph.


    ¡°Gloria, her name was.¡± She said as she tapped the photo with her withered finger. She had dull nails, like plastic left outside for too long. ¡°She wasn¡¯t from here, but her uncle owned a big house nearby. It¡¯s the villa north of here, near the woods.


    I remembered the villa. Sometimes we snuck through the large garden and peeked in the windows. It always seemed eerily desolate. We would invent stories about zombies haunting the place at night. That the basement was a crypt for vampires. When we grew up, we forgot about the place and smoked cigarettes behind the school. Like the dullness of adult life came seeping in through the cracks of our childhood. Around the time we chose the concrete over the forests.


    She opened the newspaper, almost two pages were dedicated to her. On one side was the photo, on the other a text.


    Gloria Ferluci, born in 1966, was found dead the morning of 28 October. It is believed she hung herself in the local playground. The reason is still unknown since she was supposed to be 100 miles further south, at Bellavista, where she attended school.


    I didn¡¯t continue to read. There was no need, I had found the girl. My mother did speak the truth.


    ¡°I thought about her death recently.¡± She said whilst I focused on the face of the girl. ¡°There has been another strange case recently.¡± She said thoughtfully. ¡°A man was found dead in his car at the bottom of a canal. Somehow he hit a sluice gate. Isn¡¯t that strange? How did he get so far, when they found tire marks of the car leaving the road almost two miles earlier?¡±


    I realised I was crumbling the paper. ¡°And now this young boy comes to me and asks about an equally strange suicide that happened twenty years earlier.¡±


    I threw the paper on the floor and ran away. ¡°Hey!¡± I heard the woman say. ¡°Barney!¡±


    Like a spear, I darted past the desk and bashed the heavy door open with my shoulder. I ran through the main street. People stared at me like a stray coyote, but I ran. I ran until I found myself a few blocks further, panting against a stained wall.¡±She shouldn¡¯t- shouldn¡¯t. She shouldn¡¯t have! She¡­¡±


    My throat felt thick like glue. The slimes rattled in my lungs. My shoulder felt sore. She knew who I was, where I lived. I should have taken the document with me. I should have locked her up.


    Sometimes the things that seem the most prominent, happen to be the things that don¡¯t matter at all. She never went over to our house and we never received a letter. The mystery wasn¡¯t close to being unravelled, I had barely found the entrance of the maze. But I was ready to get lost.

 The Pool

    One week ago, I had started swimming. I didn¡¯t tell my mother about it, instead, I told her I went out for a walk. The Dutch have an expression for it. They call it uitwaaien. It meant something like walking into the wind.


    Of course, I didn¡¯t go swimming. I didn¡¯t like the smell of chlorine and the sound of screaming kids reverberated against the tarnished windows.


    There were three in total. One for children with some toys that shot water in an arc. The second one was long and small, where people swam laps. Those people often wore blue or black swimming caps as they glided through the water. The other pool had a diving board. That was the one where the cool kids were, sitting on the side, daring their friends to bomb dive from the diving board. There was a little cafeteria with glass panels that looked straight at the swimming pools where I could be found.


    I stared at the reflective water and thought about death and the girl, Gloria Ferlucci. Gloria. I had snatched the photograph and hid it in my room. I stared at it before going to bed. Sometimes I even dreamed of the girl, though I never remembered it clearly. Every morning I was left with the lingering feeling of melancholy, seeping through my limbs. My mind felt like an old computer rendering an image of the vastness of space.


    I didn¡¯t know where the swings used to be when the playground wasn¡¯t razed to the ground. But there was a chance her spirit still lingered there. So I stared out of the window and looked at the people, imagining her standing in the crowd.


    Destiny seemed like drawing lots of improbabilities. The most unexpected things are often the most obvious. As a group of school kids walked in a disorderly line, I thought saw her. A girl with dark hair. I got op and made little cups around my eyes with my hands. So suddenly I moved, that my chair toppled over. I sensed the people in the cafeteria eying me and quickly turned to grab my chair. When I looked back, she was gone. Or rather, she had turned into another plain face trying not to slip on the wet floor.


    As I cursed at myself, Mack walked in, followed by a group of people I never saw before. There were three older women, a man with a beard and a girl around our age. They took a seat at the opposite side of me, on a round table. They all looked somewhere between elated and nervous. One of the elder women took the lead. ¡°Who wrote something they want to share?¡± as I stared at her back, Mack saw me. His mouth fell open. ¡°I¡¯ll get some drinks.¡± He said and got up. I could see his fingers clenched in a sweaty fist behind his back. We hadn¡¯t talked since the forest. I followed him to the counter. ¡°Hey.¡±


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.¡°Hey.¡±


    ¡°So, a poem group?¡± I said, trying to sound neutral.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Cool.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to sit with us?¡± He asked of a sudden. I turned around to stare at my empty chair. It¡¯s like my table already forgot who sat there. I nodded. ¡°No, I was just leaving.¡± As I turned and left, he grabbed my hand. ¡°Chill, I won¡¯t tell anyone!¡± I hissed. Behind him, I saw the group staring at us. ¡°I don¡¯t care, man. Just. I wanted to say I am sorry. For the forest.¡±


    ¡°Oh. It¡¯s okay.¡± I walked away without looking back.


    When I was outside, I heard someone running.


    Lilies on the surface


    Dancing in the dark


    Frogs croaking, echoes of a time


    Without language, without haste


    The heron bathes her legs


    And stares at her reflection


    She spreads her wings and soars


    Ripples on the surface


    Whirling in the dark


    ¡°What?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Poems are not just about what you see. Everything is a metaphor.¡± Mack said. ¡°What does this mean to you?¡±


    ¡°Like I know.¡±


    ¡°Try it, man.¡± He looked at me with such firmness I actually thought about it. He repeated the poem a second time. I listened with my eyes fixed on the pavement. ¡°So there is a pond, I imagine.¡±


    His wide-open eyes ushered me to carry on.


    I thought for a moment. ¡°The water is the time we have in this life. You are the heron. You leave ripples in the water but eventually, the water will be still again.¡±


    Mack smiled. ¡°Sometimes it¡¯s like a stranger wrote it. But I think poems are snapshots of the soul.¡±


    ¡°Was I correct?¡± I asked him.


    He just smiled whilst shaking his head. ¡°That¡¯s not even the point.  It doesn¡¯t matter because it¡¯s subjective. Every Wednesday we gather here to talk about writing and share a snapshot.¡±


    I remembered thinking. Every day I come here looking for ghosts. Mack went back inside and I walked around town. What was the point of finding the girl? Could I even communicate with her? Was she still there?


    Gloria was my poem, my snapshot of the soul. She was as far from me as I was from myself. It¡¯s only once the ripples of time have subsided that the obvious becomes clear. That the fabric reality almost feels tangible. Wisdom only exists in the past.

 Yasmine

    It was night, I was at my desk. The little stand light shone its scorching light on an empty paper in front of me. The rest of the room, shrouded in darkness. I tried to write a poem myself, but I couldn¡¯t seem to get it right. It was like I was fishing in a dark pond, searching for a koi. But all I got were slimy, dark fish without a name. It frustrated me to the point I crumbled the empty page and threw it in the bin. For some reason, I felt like walking. To venture into the unknown. So I snuck past my mother¡¯s room and got out of the house.


    The streets were lit with lanterns every few yards. In the dark, even the known world felt different. I walked around the block, thinking about poetry. When I was almost back in my street, my thoughts were disturbed by the noise of a car rumbling. I looked back and saw headlights peering through the darkness. I continued to walk. ¡°Between the walls, echos of the past,¡± I murmured. ¡°Calls to me from the shadows forces me to watch scenes that I wished to forget.¡±


    The car came closer and closer and I could see my shadow stretch in its light. My body was tense, as I listened carefully to the sound of the car. The noise came closer and closer still, until the car rattled next to me, matching my speed. I turned to see the passager window open.


    ¡°Do you believe the ego manifests outside? I mean, that your body adapts to your personality.¡± It was the voice of a woman. I took a deep breath, letting my stomach expand outwards.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I said. ¡°But what if it¡¯s the other way around? That you become what you look like?¡±


    She opened the door. ¡°Get in.¡± I hesitated. Not just the thought of getting in a stranger¡¯s car at night, but the idea of a car itself. I looked in the distance, my house was a sprint away.


    ¡°I can bring you home.¡± She said.


    ¡°Do I know you?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Not as of yet.¡± With that, she speeded away. It was a sportscar. You could hear it as the engine roared to life. I saw its brake lights create this reddish glow before the car turned and disappeared. I quickly walked to the door and entered. I had forgotten all about being stealthy and stubbed my toe against the table. I immediately froze. She was still asleep.


    The next day I woke up at twelve. My mom already left for work. She worked in a laundry where she ironed. Sometimes, she had to work extra hours, depending on the amount of clothes and napkins and tablecloths. Usually, she came home around five. I felt guilty somehow for her, so I cleaned the house as good as I could. Starting small with dusting off, then vacuum-cleaning. I started cooking rice. In the fridge I found some chicken that I cut into small blocks and fried, after that, I made a curry sauce. When I tasted the sauce it needed more salt. Frankly, it needed more of everything. Cooking was something I regularly did, though I wouldn¡¯t have called myself good at it.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.I ate the dish at the dinner table when I heard the car again. Soon, it passed the kitchen window at a snail¡¯s pace. I could see the contours of the woman looking at the houses. She was looking for me. I dropped my fork and ran for the door. It was indeed the same car. A pitch-black 911 SC. The car turned onto a neighbouring lawn, then turned.


    The window opened like last time, only now I could see who was in there. A woman of around thirty with dark, curly hair. Her lips were devil red. She wore white, full-rimmed glasses. ¡°Can I come in?¡±


    She parked the car on our drive. And I kept thinking the car was worth as much as our whole house. The first things I saw were her white shoes and sunkissed legs. She wore a skirt starting at the knees. She had beautiful knees. I never knew knees could be beautiful.


    ¡°Are you going to invite me in?¡± she asked. I looked up. ¡°Only vampires ask such questions.¡±


    I instantly regretted my response, but she laughed. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry, I¡¯m not here to suck your blood.


    She got in and I cleaned the table. ¡°So, who are you?¡± I asked after a moment of silence.


    ¡°My name is Yasmine. I live nearby, in the villa close to the park.¡±


    This encounter didn¡¯t feel like a coincidence at all. The more I thought about it, the more I felt Like I was the puppet of some evil puppeteer. Someone who changed the solid things by fake things, and the fake by the solid things.


    ¡°If you want I will tell you my story.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± I asked. ¡°Why should I know your story?¡±


    She smiled. ¡°You can only be interested in my story once I tell it. Or at least hint at the unknown. So, do you want to know it or not?¡±


    I nodded. ¡°Let me prepare some tea and you can share your story.¡± I had forgotten I was actually quite hungry. The hunger to sustain me was replaced by a different kind of hunger. The hunger of the unknown.


    That day I became addicted to Yasmine.

 Yasmines story Part 1

    I placed a damping cup of black tea in front of her. As well sugar and a pack of cookies. I took place, evading her eyes. Instead, I checked the kitchen, investigating its flaws and mistakes.


    ¡°Are you sure you want to listen to my story? It''s quite long and perhaps even boring.¡±


    I apologised, a thing I did too often back then and looked her in the eye. ¡°Please, proceed.¡±


    She smiled. ¡°I grew up in a little town, quite far from here. My parents owned a cafe, so from a small age, I helped where I could. The guests were interesting back then, each had their own story, and all their paths converged at our place. It sparked my interest in stories and humans, back then I had not heard of the term psychology yet. There was a man that lost his sight but found his way to us by smells and sounds. There were depressions and drunkards, there were parties. Each Christmas we used to decorate the place, me and my sister, that is. It changed when we were fourteen, and the cafe burned down to the ground. I still dream about the place, it was my home.¡± She made a why to smile and let out a sigh. She went through her hair and cleared her voice. As if only then she realised there was tea, she took the cup in both hands and sipped. ¡°We forgot to remove the bag.¡±


    ¡°My father was devastated, my mother heartbroken. My sister and I were left in this whirlwind of uncertainty as he started drinking. Do you know what alcohol does with you, Barnabas? It depends on how you use it, it can be innocent like three friends sharing a bottle and reminiscing the past. But when you use it to avoid the shadows, they manifest. People always do the opposite of what they should, when you tell them no they mean yes. When you encourage them, they think you manipulate them to do something they don¡¯t want. We¡¯re all scared of shadows, aren¡¯t we? Anyways, my story. Until our teenage years'' things had been simple and quiet in their loud way. But now we were all broken. My sister and I left home at fifteen, our uncle you see, had gathered great riches. I decided to become a psychologist. Why do you think I did that?¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± I wasn¡¯t anticipating questions. ¡°Because you wanted to fix what was broken. both in yourself and your family?¡±


    She smiled. ¡°I think so too. I swore never to drink and to bring clarity in my little world. Build something out of the rubble of the past. Our world was quiet, but now I realised my mother had never really smiled. Why was that? So we came here, to this quiet town. My sister met a boy and fell in love. I focused on my studies, and my hopes to fix the world. But when you¡¯re so focused on fixing, things break all around you. We were twins, you see. My sister and I were one soul diluted in two different bodies. But after the fire, I lost some connection to her. These things can be traumatic, alter your brain in ways you can¡¯t fathom. Are you still a virgin?¡±


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.I remained silent and stared at the cupboard.


    ¡°I think yes.¡±


    ¡°Do you ask these kinds of questions often?¡± I said.


    ¡°A first time changes you. But I think your answer is no. Anyhow. My sister got to know a boy, but he was older, way older. The older you get, the fewer age matters. But ten years is a lot when you''re fifteen. My sister, realising she could never have him, suicide that year. I lost another precious part of myself that day.¡±


    ¡°Oh. I¡¯m¡­ sorry¡­ my father also recently died. Does the pain get better?¡±


    She sipped some more tea. ¡°You learn to live with it, but it never really fades. It¡¯s a scar that remains forever. What happened to your father?¡±


    I hated to talk about it, but she made me feel at ease. I think wanted to expose myself to her, let her judge me in her light. I wanted to tell her who I was.


    ¡°His car crashed into the canal. I don¡¯t know if it even was an accident, to be honest. The police came to our house one day, bringing this news. I guess my father dying is just news. It happened this summer.¡±


    ¡°I am so sorry for you, Barnabas.¡±


    ¡°Ever since I have evaded stepping in a car,¡± I said. ¡°I feel like death is all around me. I can¡­ even see them.¡±


    ¡°You can? Tell me.¡±


    I told her the story my mother told me. Explained everything that had happened to me so far. Everything except Mack¡¯s poetry group. I went upstairs to find the photograph and handed it over.


    As I told her more, Yasmine¡¯s eyes grew. As if she was absorbing my words almost physically. Sometimes she wanted to say something, but bit on her lip and let me speak.


    ¡°That¡¯s my story,¡± I concluded.


    ¡°The girl you see.¡± She said. ¡°I think it¡¯s my sister.¡± She had a glassy look in her eye, like a wet floor.


    ¡°Can I have your phone number?¡± she asked with a little voice. ¡°I want to visit you again.¡±


    She stayed in her car for half an hour, then she slowly drove away. I watched her leave from the window in my mothers'' room. She had kept the photograph in her hands, but I didn¡¯t think of asking it back. That day I realised our paths were woven together.

 Yasmines story Part 2

    The next day she called me. ¡°What are you doing today?¡± she asked. I had the telephone in my hand and walked around as far as the cable let me. ¡°I thought of going out for a walk,¡± I said. She told me to wait for her.


    Half an hour later a car stopped at my drive, from the windows I saw a different car. The car was as practical as the Porshe was cool and sporty. I went outside and closed the front door. She opened the passager¡¯s door for me.


    ¡°You¡¯re hesitant,¡± she said.


    I put on perfume, it belonged to my father. The whole morning I focussed my thoughts on the perfume. It smelled grown-up, fresh, spicy. It didn¡¯t smell like cheap deodorant that boys put on after a shower. This was something men wore at decent restaurants.


    Yasmine got out of the car. She wore a long, red dress. I could see about five-inch of her leg, but I had her arms. She didn¡¯t have any tattoos, just silky impeccable skin.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d be okay if I would drive,¡± she said. Her lips were red, her hair was done. I tried to absorb her as much I could. ¡°Did you ever drove a car, Barnabas?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°Good.¡± She smiled. She seemed to always smile and how I love to sit in her head that moment. I imagined her head felt like an evening in spring when the winds sleep and the earth is hot.


    ¡°Cat got your tongue?¡±


    ¡°I just don¡¯t know what to say.¡± It was true, I didn¡¯t know what to say. I focussed on the perfume and tried not to look foolish. I didn¡¯t know how to do that.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s best if we start walking, so I can continue my story.¡±


    I walked, watching the stones and trying not to touch the seams with my feet. It was a game I played since childhood, walking on my toes and trying to match my speed with the interior of the tiles. Here, it helped me focus, because I truly wanted to remember every single word she said.


    ¡°My uncle had this large house, I¡¯m talking about the villa here.¡± I nodded. ¡°And that place was a place of parties and fun. Writers came there to think, rich businessmen came there to smoke, politicians came there to fiddle with girls. It was a place very much like my old cafe. Remember yesterday I told you your house somehow manifests inside your mind?


    ¡°Yeah, you still dream of your old house.¡±


    ¡°What about you? Do you dream of your house?¡± she asked.


    Strangely enough, I had been dreaming of my house recently. It was as if her words just unlocked a whole sequence forgotten in the night. I remembered now. ¡°Yeah I did, I think this night even. But I don¡¯t believe there was anything special about that dream. I went to the basement, but we don¡¯t have a basement.¡±


    ¡°What did you see there?¡±


    ¡°A lonely lightbulb illuminating some kind of chest,¡± I said. ¡°But what can it mean? There isn¡¯t a basement.¡±


    She smiled again. ¡°There is always a basement, Barnabas.¡±


    We walked to a local cafe where we got tea and cheesecake. Our table was at the window, where a cool breeze would whiffle against our legs. ¡°So I lived in the villa as my mother was incapable of looking after us anymore. I later learned she was at an asylum dealing with her trauma. The family was ashamed of her, so much that we didn¡¯t even know where she had been. We felt we were being excluded by the one who should hold us in our arms and tell us it would be okay. One day she escaped the asylum and ran up to the burned down cafe, just to scream our names. I learned all this when she died, of course. A friendly nurse at the asylum told me her sad story. I had only thought of us needing her arms, but she needed us as well. She died when I was twenty-one. Only me and my father remained. So I was ready for the world with my psychology degree. I was officially a doctor and the people I wanted to help first were already dead. And my father, I lost contact with him when my sister died. So I did what I thought was right and hang out at the villa. I slept with a lot of strange men, but every one of them learned me something they can¡¯t teach you in school. Does it bother you?¡±


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.¡°No, you sleep with whoever you want,¡± I said. Though it wasn¡¯t completely true.


    ¡°I mean me talking the whole time. Look at that, I forgot my tea again completely.¡± It had turned lukewarm. I fiddled with my spoon as she cut a piece of the cheesecake and ate it slowly. She carefully mashed it, savouring the taste with her eyes closed and a smile on her face.


    ¡°It¡¯s a tad too sweet for me, but delicious nonetheless. Anyway, back to my story. One of the men did something I didn¡¯t see anyone do. He meditated, explained to me that it was a way to see his mind. He also had something special to actually visit the mind, one night we drank some special mix of exotic plants and everything changed. My whole world seemed to open. It was like I had lived with binoculars on my eyes, and now I saw everything. I saw my sister, unchanged in her teenage body. It was like we both shared the same skin, in a way. I don¡¯t remember what happened next but I got terribly ill. The days after I stayed in bed in the dark, when I woke up again, the man who gave me this remedy or curse, had gone. I never knew the name of it, only it existed. So I tried countless things, occult things only achieved through carnal pleasures. Does it really not bother you to fill your young mind with such silly things?¡±


    I shook my head. Encouraging her to continue without uttering a word. If anything I wanted more.


    ¡°Fine. Carnal, spiritual, poison, alcohol, I had tried it all. A way to reconnect with my sister or at least rebuild my broken home, she pointed at our head. Then I realised everyone is broken. The mere search for a cure is in itself a disease. You need to learn to accept and let go. My practice, because I had one. Do not believe I didn¡¯t help or at least tried to help, people. But they say those who can¡¯t do, teach. And in some ways, it is indeed true. I realised my faults, which helped me make others realise their faults. It¡¯s like being a light in the dark but all the time you think you¡¯re the light, you¡¯re not. I am in the dark.¡± She smiled again.


    We remained silent, as we let the words uttered seep into our minds. Now I realise she must also let the words seep in. Simple fact, no one knows where thoughts come from. So how one can trust itself? You can go crazy realising it. There the ego mediates between the conscious and the unconscious, giving with one hand and taking away with another.


    ¡°You tell something,¡± she said with a chuckle. ¡°My voice has gone weary.¡±


    ¡°Well, what can I say,¡± I said.


    ¡°Fine, how about a bet. Or better, a transaction.¡±


    ¡°What kind of transaction?¡±


    ¡°A kiss¡­ for sitting in the car with me.¡±


    My face turned red. I could feel the blood coursing through my cheeks, temperatures rising. ¡°I accept your challenge.¡±


    She lent over and gave me a quick peck on my cheek. It was my right one, I still remember it even after all this time.

 Looking for Obstacles

    As we exited the cafe, it shook me how much time had passed. Clouds had come like a herd of grazing sheep. We travelled the way back in silence, as I thought about the car I didn¡¯t have an eye for much else.


    Yasmine got in and I could see her smile through the window. She waved me to come, but my hand stopped at the handle. There was something in my head linking cars with death somehow. She bent over to my side and turned on the wheel to lower the window. ¡°I can give you a second kiss if you come in,¡± she said.


    Had she truly been a psychologist? Who would heal people that way? I tried to think of the good, I would conquer my fear. She was there, ready to bestow me my reward.


    My hand closed around the handle and I pulled. The door opened and revealed the worn-out seat. It was thin, flat, and stained, really worn down to its core. I dropped on the seat and tried to make myself comfortable.


    ¡°Well well, Barnabas conquering his fears. Or do you pretend it¡¯s a fear for a kiss?¡± she laughed.


    I think I certainly would lie for a kiss. Especially a kiss from her. I looked around and thought of my breath. It was too shallow for something so inactive.


    ¡°Now, close the door or there is no deal.¡±


    I hesitated, then closed the door. She smiled, she always smiled. ¡°Good job.¡±


    ¡°Now what?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Close your eyes.¡±


    So I did. She leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. I felt shooting stars, fireworks at the bay. I felt summer. I felt like being blasted off to space. Weightlessness. My mind drained empty to a low buzz, like a plug being removed. I felt reborn, new. I felt like losing myself in a song, as it ups the tempo for the final climax.


    ¡°Wanna go for a ride?¡± she asked as I let the moment seep into my mind. I nodded.


    She started the old car and bashed the stick into reverse gear. Then she drove around town, like driftwood on the ocean¡¯s waves. With its squeaky dampening and noisy gears, the car felt like the equivalent of piggybacking your grandparents. The thought made me smile, then laugh. She laughed along until we were almost choking with laughter. ¡°Can you tell me what¡¯s so funny?¡± she asked, wiping her eye.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that funny, really,¡± I said. ¡°Tell me another story about your life as a psychologist.¡±


    Yasmine thought for a long time, her long fingers ruffling the steering wheel.


    ¡°Let¡¯s make another bet.¡±


    She drove to nearby meadows, where the roads were narrow and winding. There she stopped just like that, in the middle of the road. ¡°Do you want to drive?¡± she asked. I shook my head. ¡°I can¡¯t, no licence you see.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need a licence to drive. You just need to drive. So the real question is, can you drive?¡±


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.¡°No,¡± I said whilst shaking my head. This felt like one step too far. I remembered telling her my father let me drive sometimes, but I couldn¡¯t just go on the road.


    ¡°You know what the benefit of meditation has been for me?¡± she asked. ¡°The idea that you are not your thoughts. What do you think you are going to say?¡±


    ¡°As an answer to what you just said? I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡± she exclaimed. ¡°Where do thoughts come from, huh? You are just limiting yourself, Barnabas. Let your mind be free, there is but the illusion of control anyways. You are not you.¡±


    I didn¡¯t understand what she meant. At the moment my thoughts were saturated with the kiss. I might as well have been drunk. She wanted to help me help myself, I understood that. But living something is always different from advice. Also this she surely knew.


    She drove me back home but left the car at my drive and threw me the key. I caught it with a reflex that surprised even myself.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take a walk,¡± she said. ¡°Return me the car when you¡¯re ready.¡± And she did walk away, just like that.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you at least park it on the road?¡± I said. She ignored me. I tried to understand if she was mad, disappointed. Was she only playing just to force me to take the wheel?


    The hours passed. My mother would surely ask who¡¯s car was parked here. I thought of excuses. ¡°No mom, Mack bought a car but can¡¯t tell his parents yet.¡± It sounded silly, plus my mom might as well call Mack¡¯s mother. I imagined threatening him to tell everyone about his poem club, but it felt stupid. He was a friend, I wouldn¡¯t betray him for something as silly as this. Then it hit me. I had to move it, at least, not doing it was indeed silly.


    ¡°Damn it,¡± I cursed as I pulled the key out of my jeans and opened the door. I got behind the wheel and turned the key until the icons illuminated on the instrument panel, trying to keep my calm. What if a police officer saw me? Was this legal? What if I wrecked something?


    What did she say about thoughts again? I am not me. The thoughts aren¡¯t me. Then who¡¯s are they? Then I thought perhaps she meant useful. What if doubt wasn¡¯t useful here?


    I grabbed hold of the key once more and turned it the final time while pressing one foot on the clutch and another on the break. The car started seamlessly. For a moment there was doubt like an ocean of chaos, then there was control. I knew this car, I could feel it. I turned the steering wheel and could naturally guess the position of the actual wheels. It was a question of feeling. I shifted into reverse and felt the gears crunch a little. Then I looked backwards. The streets were empty save for some elderly lady walking her dog on the other side.


    Confidently I slowly let go of the brake and turned the wheel. Once on the road, I placed the car in first and drove almost on the grass.


    A minute later I was back inside, staring at the old car. It wasn¡¯t anything special but it felt mine somehow. I kept telling myself it wasn¡¯t, it was Yasmine¡¯s car. But it felt like mine.