Winter. Again, winter. Tons and tons of snow, the noise of families buzzing with holiday excitement, the city sparkling with a thousand lights without worrying about the electricity bill. Happiness, as they say.
And in the midst of all this beauty, there's me. A young woman, without any particular ambition, not very cheerful, and poorly dressed. I feel like I don't belong in this world, constantly sensing that I don't fit among these beautiful people. Their joy, their laughter, their love. I feel like I don't have any of that, like I have nothing at all. I have a crappy job as a marketing agent that makes me work like a dog because otherwise, I wouldn't deserve my place. "You know, without wanting to be mean, as a foreigner, you should work harder than others here," my team leader often tells me, with a cunning smile. Sometimes I imagine giving him a punch or a headbutt right in the teeth, but I suppose as a sane person, I shouldn't do such things. Not let emotions overwhelm me. I repeat this phrase with every wrong word, every disdainful look, with every inappropriate comment about my appearance or my origin.
My mother was an immigrant. After her divorce, she decided to start a new life outside her homeland, far from her husband. My grandmother said her son was crazy, and until she died, she remained convinced. I think she was right. My father wasn't all there, and I think it's genetic. Sometimes I feel like I'm not all there; I don't think like others. But, just like my father, the only person I was kind to, I lost. I couldn't say why my parents made this choice; I couldn't say why Mom insisted on giving me this life; I couldn't say when my life took this turn.
My mother worked every day, non-stop. Normally, when you fulfill a dream, it's to live a more fulfilling life, but coming to Seoul, I just felt like she was chaining herself up like a slave. No rest, a child to take care of, debts, tuition fees, health expenses, all of it was just for her. My father never sent child support because there was no one to claim it. Mom managed on her own, keeping the possibility of returning to Libreville at bay.
Every time I try to remember my childhood, I only see my father. Sitting in his rocking chair, talking to himself, with vacant eyes and clenched fists. He never really said anything to me; we never really played together. I left him when I was five, if it had happened at least once, I would remember it, right? Nothing comes to me; sometimes, I feel like my real life began here. With my mother, in our small apartment, we had more closeness than in that big family house. We shared more happy moments that I remember. "Darling, Mom and Dad love you very much." My mother always spoke for both of them; she said that to reassure me of something uncertain.
Did he still remember that he had a daughter? Did he think of me? Did I really think of him?
For some reason, I find myself asking these repetitive questions. In different forms, with different words, with distinct tones but ultimately sounding the same.
When my mother was still alive, I didn't have to ask these kinds of questions. My life revolved around her; my small world needed her more than the sun and the moon. I didn't like seeing her leave; I didn't like those "See you later, dear." That's why I never liked school or even the outside. Anything that took me away from her frustrated me, disgusted me. So yes, I admit, death disgusts me. This person disgusts me, repulses me. Even when I was told that he had committed suicide in prison, I felt no pity, no compassion for his wife and daughter.
Winter had fallen abundantly, like tonight. I was eight years old or more that year. I had gone to bed early on Christmas Eve, eager to get my gifts from Santa Claus. I slept heavily that night; I dreamed of a Christmas with both my parents. A joyful dream that took me away from the horror of that freezing night.
The next day, not in high spirits, I was ready to pounce on my gifts. That year, my mother was able to get us a beautiful Christmas tree; it was small but full of beauty for me. She used to say, "The first years of college and the last years of high school are the ones where we should have the best memories of our lives." Mom, if only you were right. In high school, I wasn't liked, only you liked me. However, our last memory together was far from wonderful. It was nothing more than a scene of horror, of crime. You lay on the cold floor, amidst the pastries you had carefully prepared for the eve, eyes wide open and bloodshot. The kitchen, from floor to ceiling, was painted with the colors of everything I loved most in the world. As you taught me, I called 119*. "Hello, ma'am?"
Touched by the sweet voice of a child, the lady answered gently, "Yes, my angel. I'm listening; what's happening?" I didn't cry; I didn't understand what all this mess meant. "I don't know. My mom hurt herself badly; she's lying on the floor."
"What do you mean, lying on the floor? Did she faint, or did she fall?" With a cold and empty gaze, I looked at her again, lying on her side. "No, she... she has her eyes open. But when I called her, she didn't respond." It didn't take the operator long to understand what had happened in that small apartment in the outskirts of Guryong. She asked for my address and if there was anyone with me. "No, it's just my mom and me here, we're alone in the world." When she often cried about her fate and hugged me to gather courage, Mom used to say these words.
Alone in the world. That's what I became after that day, alone against all odds. The investigation lasted eleven years. Eleven long years, just to find out it was a colleague obsessed with her. He followed her, harassed her, and one day, he decided to ruin her whole life because my mother didn't give in to his advances. Just that. Lives ruined by love, or rather, by obsession.
His wife used to visit me at my high school; she used to beg me to forgive him. "If he hadn't confessed, we would never have known it was him, so please, don't let him die." The same scene, my same silence. Until one day, I cracked in front of those disgusting words, in front of the whole school. I violently undid the grip she had on my hand, making her lose balance. On the ground, I looked down at her with contempt.
"Do you dare to glorify yourself? He confessed, so he should be completely forgiven, right? But who said that's how things should go?"
The trial was coming to an end; Geom Jehol's daughter had just entered high school while I was leaving. All that time
, eleven years, she had lived with her parents. But me? I lived in a Caritas, surrounded by other adolescents, some violent and ill-intentioned. But I never complained to anyone. Nevertheless, "Please, Vania. Maji is younger than you; she needs her father. Do you understand? Please, save him, don't send him to prison forever." No matter how much she begged me, knelt and cried, pity, remorse, and tenderness were already far behind me. All of that was dead, as dead as my poor mother.
"And... who will save my mother?"
"W-What?"
"A mother with a heart as selfish as yours deserves death. But, as the world is unjust, it took my mother when she had a heart as big and vast as an ocean." I couldn't help but make a bitter smirk; it disgusted me to have to endure this ridiculous scene every week, week after week.
"Vania-ah..."
"Heaven won't bring me justice fast enough; I've already waited eleven years. Maji's father took my mother from me; tell her it's my turn to take her father. And as for you, if I see your face one more time, I won't spare you."
"H-How can you be so heartless! Don't you have any feelings? Do you want to destroy a family to satisfy your vengeance, is that it?" She shouted so loudly that she alerted the administration. But, anyway, I never needed anyone to defend me.
"Yes. I am heartless; your husband took it from me. He took it and stabbed her seventeen times without remorse. And if it's only compassion or anything else you expect from me..." I lowered myself to her level so that she understood well, that my words stayed between us. "I advise you to end it now because it won't happen. I won't have pity for you, your husband, or your daughter." The horrified look she had that day never left her; it was as if she had seen the devil. Probably.
Anyway, after that, this label never left me. The sadistic one, the sinister one, the heartless one. I lived secluded, scarred, and darkened by the cruel life that took everything away from me from a young age.
After college, I joined GG Cosmetics, and now I'm a sales agent. Paid peanuts, overworked, and depressed; for me, the holiday season is neither magical nor joyful. Days of overcast skies, abundant snow, unpaid leave, and incessant colds. I don't want to be negative; I don't want to be cynical and pessimistic. It's just that my thoughts are like this, abnormal. But how can I be happy when instead of going to the supermarket to get a Yule log, I have to bring flowers to my deceased mother? This life doesn't make sense, and I no longer try to give it one. I no longer try to make sense of my actions, my words, and my thoughts.
My actions, my thoughts, and my past. They led me to this; they made me lose my realism. Grandmother was right; Dad was crazy. And I think I'm right when I say that something is not right with me either. Distinguishing good from bad, reality from falsehood, and the eternal from the carnal, I know how to do it. But a second voice tells me that it doesn't matter so much, that only I should decide what is or isn't. Only I decide to keep or throw away.
Only I decide life or death.
But this time, I must admit that...I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD EXPERIENCE THIS KIND OF SITUATION. SHIT.