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Raf, Lucero, and my own disintegrating sense of self.
I've already replayed everything on a loop, and nothing can stop the anguish that forms in my chest every time I remember Raf calling me byhername. Certainly, it's been long enough to realize that being alone with one's thoughts can be more painful than actual, physical pain.
But Raf's words aren't the only ones still echoing in my head.
Tormented screams and angry shouts resound in my ears, the noises so deafening, I can't seem to shut them out.
I see the blood.
On my hands.
Staining my face.
Soaking my clothes.
Blood is everywhere.
There are no particular memories to associate with these sensations. Still, they are part of my being, set to torture me with their mere existence at the drop of a hat.
The few times I've managed to doze off, I've slept poorly, the flashbacks from before clouding my mind and mixing up with my own fears and disillusions.
I only need to close my eyes and I see Raf—he's draped in rags, his body battered, his eyes tortured. I see him staring atme.
His gaze is accusatory, and in that one look I can read the condemnation, the disdain, and most of all thehate. He looks at me as if he would like nothing more than to squash me. Take me under his boot and crush me like an insignificant insect.
And I wouldn't say no.
In that dreamworld—or better said, nightmare world—I face him head on, owning to my mistakes, ready to repent for each one of them. A deep sense of guilt and grief fills me to the brim, and taking one step forward towards him—towards that elusive image of him—my knees give out.
I kneel, my eyes cast down as I don't dare to meet his scathing gaze anymore. Not when I know myself guilty of such grievous sins, I should be executed on the spot for everything I've done to him.
Sometimes, the scene feels too real to be a dream. Other times, the background is too distorted for it to be a reality.
Yet one thing never changes—how I interact with the scene. I'm always ashamed. Beleaguered by an ineffable feeling of atonement and regret that weighs me down more and more with each passing second. And no matter how much I feel like I owe him my very life and essence of being, some things don't add up. I know what I've done to him, and why, theoretically, I should feel remorseful towards him.
I killed the one he loves.
But I don't regret it. In fact, I would do it again, and again, repeating the same action but each time more viciously until she'd be erased from this earth and from collective memory.
Thatis not how someone repentant reacts. It's contrary to everything I feel about him.
Andthatbegs the question…
What did I do to him?
For a while now, I feel like I've opened Pandora's box and let every type of evil out into the world. But this time, I personally made sure thathopefled too.
Because if I harmedhimin any way; if I hurt even one strand of hair on his beautiful head, then I could never forgive myself.
That's where I draw the line.
In my insanity, I could live with knowing that I've massacred an entire house full of people, that I've killed my own friend and confidante, but I couldneverforgive myself if I hurthim.
My heart beats wildly in my chest as I picture myself at thehacienda. Now, more than ever before, I force myself to remember everything—needing to know the magnitude of my sins before I can start repenting. But most of all, I'm trying to find a logic to the things I've blocked out.
Why did I forget only certain memories and not all? Why do I still remember the way Sergio had treated me?
The way I see it, if I blocked out everything traumatic that happened to me, then the abuse should have been the first to disappear from my mind.
