Monday 12 November 2012
Saturday 11 February 2012
Chapter 4 - Meeting my Dearest Friend, Happiest Memories
In mid-January, browsing a model site, I found a casting of a fashion and make-up show which fell on 20th January. The said day I travelled to Budapest, only to find out that I misunderstood something, the casting would be a month later, the 20th February. I snarled. Then somehow I recalled that on Sunday there would be a meeting for fantasy readers in the Millenaris Park.
Millenaris Park, a compound with several buildings of large halls and conference rooms, was near Moszkva square; on Sunday I arrived there early in the afternoon. I wavered amongst unknown people, feeling awkward and out of place, seeking Wayne, the most known Hungarian fantasy author; I knew he would be present. Within ten minutes I saw him: I have already seen his photos, in the pictures he looked thinner and he had short, blond hair, yet I recognised him. This time he looked better: He was bigger, and his head was shaven bald. I sneaked up to him and sat down his table.
“So good to meet you” I said. “Your novels are awesome.”
He, a seasoned writer, must have heard that one million times. He smiled.
“I write, too” I said. “At Szukits, with Gyurcsány and Zentai.”
“You’re lucky then. It’s hard to find a publisher these days. I have heaps of trouble with them myself. Sometimes I regret that I ever cared a flying fuck about them…"
I loved to listen to him, I loved the twinkle of his greyish-blue eyes. Many authors seem clumsy in person, but not Wayne; he sounded self-assured, witty.
”Hey,” he said, “you should see Celts Publisher, its managers are my buddies. They could help a newbie. “
I did not want to see unknown people, I was happy with Wayne himself. However, the said managers, two boisterous persons, came up to us and seated themselves near Wayne. I was not glad to see them: I wanted Wayne for myself. Then I had a closer look at them. They were a couple: An awesome lady and a good-looking man.
Madonna, I thought when I looked at the woman, she looks just like Madonna. She had long, silvery blonde hair, her eyes were light blue like porcelain, and her skin so white – I was pale, too, but she looked like a Scandinavian. She was tall, 180 cm, and she had a round, lithe figure. She wore a shining midnight blue dress and a golden cross pendant with gemstones, which made her even more Madonna-like.
Her husband was a handsome, tall man, well-built and broad shouldered, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He was clad in black. They looked like a couple from a film.
“That cross, it looks hot” Wayne said. (I suspected he liked the lady herself.)
“You see?” she flashed a grin at Wayne, and touched the pendant. “I wear this when I want to mock idiots who believe fantasy readers are Satanists.”
We laughed. I leaned closer to her. I was always withdrawn and guarded with unknown people. Yet I loved this woman.
She looked at me.
“Are you an author, too?”
“How did you know…?”
“You look like one. You seem faraway.”
“You guessed it right” I said. “Now I have an idea of a new novel, ‘I Love You, Elizabeth Bathory’.”
Her smile reached her light blue eyes.
”That’s cool” she said. “We need young and talented writers… Would you care to send me a synopsis of your story?”
I stared at her. Publishers usually try to get rid of amateur writers. This lady treated me as if I was almost her equal. I never hoped that she could have been interested.
After an hour of chatting, the blonde woman and her husband said good-bye to Wayne and me. As they left, she handed me a name card.
Hűvösvölgyi Vanda Hajnalka, the card read.
It was a well chosen name, sophisticated, exquisite, and melodious. Her family name hűvös völgy means cool valley, and the given names are Pagan names (Hajnal means dawn in Hungarian).
Her husband’s name was Ottó Mándoki.
Millenaris Park, a compound with several buildings of large halls and conference rooms, was near Moszkva square; on Sunday I arrived there early in the afternoon. I wavered amongst unknown people, feeling awkward and out of place, seeking Wayne, the most known Hungarian fantasy author; I knew he would be present. Within ten minutes I saw him: I have already seen his photos, in the pictures he looked thinner and he had short, blond hair, yet I recognised him. This time he looked better: He was bigger, and his head was shaven bald. I sneaked up to him and sat down his table.
“So good to meet you” I said. “Your novels are awesome.”
He, a seasoned writer, must have heard that one million times. He smiled.
“I write, too” I said. “At Szukits, with Gyurcsány and Zentai.”
“You’re lucky then. It’s hard to find a publisher these days. I have heaps of trouble with them myself. Sometimes I regret that I ever cared a flying fuck about them…"
I loved to listen to him, I loved the twinkle of his greyish-blue eyes. Many authors seem clumsy in person, but not Wayne; he sounded self-assured, witty.
”Hey,” he said, “you should see Celts Publisher, its managers are my buddies. They could help a newbie. “
I did not want to see unknown people, I was happy with Wayne himself. However, the said managers, two boisterous persons, came up to us and seated themselves near Wayne. I was not glad to see them: I wanted Wayne for myself. Then I had a closer look at them. They were a couple: An awesome lady and a good-looking man.
Madonna, I thought when I looked at the woman, she looks just like Madonna. She had long, silvery blonde hair, her eyes were light blue like porcelain, and her skin so white – I was pale, too, but she looked like a Scandinavian. She was tall, 180 cm, and she had a round, lithe figure. She wore a shining midnight blue dress and a golden cross pendant with gemstones, which made her even more Madonna-like.
Her husband was a handsome, tall man, well-built and broad shouldered, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He was clad in black. They looked like a couple from a film.
“That cross, it looks hot” Wayne said. (I suspected he liked the lady herself.)
“You see?” she flashed a grin at Wayne, and touched the pendant. “I wear this when I want to mock idiots who believe fantasy readers are Satanists.”
We laughed. I leaned closer to her. I was always withdrawn and guarded with unknown people. Yet I loved this woman.
She looked at me.
“Are you an author, too?”
“How did you know…?”
“You look like one. You seem faraway.”
“You guessed it right” I said. “Now I have an idea of a new novel, ‘I Love You, Elizabeth Bathory’.”
Her smile reached her light blue eyes.
”That’s cool” she said. “We need young and talented writers… Would you care to send me a synopsis of your story?”
I stared at her. Publishers usually try to get rid of amateur writers. This lady treated me as if I was almost her equal. I never hoped that she could have been interested.
After an hour of chatting, the blonde woman and her husband said good-bye to Wayne and me. As they left, she handed me a name card.
Hűvösvölgyi Vanda Hajnalka, the card read.
It was a well chosen name, sophisticated, exquisite, and melodious. Her family name hűvös völgy means cool valley, and the given names are Pagan names (Hajnal means dawn in Hungarian).
Her husband’s name was Ottó Mándoki.
Chapter 2 - The First Warning Signs
I have grown up in a small town in a remote and poor region of Hungary, near the frontier.
I had been a happy child, except when I had to go to school which I detested: I was a bright student, but I hated the company of other children. Neither did they like me, they felt uncomfortable when they came near me or touched me. Thus they ostracised me.
Initially my parents and my grandma had noticed nothing unusual. They loved me (they still do), back then we could get along well. My parents and my grandmother had college diplomas and they could not imagine anything else for me.
I had not got any siblings, and I was happy this way. I was a lonely child, but I did not mind that. I enjoyed playing alone at a nearby abandoned construction site, in the garden, and, of course, I loved reading. The characters of my good old books, were much more real than my classmates. In my imaginary world I was safe. I spent my childhood by reading stories and creating my own ones. I am still glad to recall that carefree and delightful time.
As a child, I adored my grandma. She has been a tough and stubborn person, most people feared her, but with me she was different, warm-hearted and caring. As a little girl, I loved to play in her room, on her green carpet - that ancient dark green carpet still has been covering the floor of her room.
I was fond of Pink Panther. I even founded a Pink Panther Club, and could make one member join (it was my best friend, Zsuzsika). I hated dolls though. I knew they were sweet and girlish, yet I loathed them all the same. I had some dolls, I even played with them sometimes, but sooner or later I undressed them, cut off their hair and painted their faces blue and green with felt-tip pens, sometimes I broke off their arms and poked them with needles.
My parents were startled to discover that I loved weird things from the age of nine: Gory police news, horror films, Gothic novels. I enjoyed detailed descriptions of outrageous crimes: Women who murdered their babies; psychotic sect leaders who performed human sacrifice. I enjoyed elaborative descriptions of medieval torments. I read long articles about Karla Homolka and Charles Manson. I devoured stories about abused women. I could not understand what "love" was between women and men, but I knew about their games of control, and I suspected it was something dangerous and painful. I liked reports about prostitutes, either penniless Hungarian girls from the streets or the red light district of Amsterdam
Probably it was the first warning sign for my parents. They were the most rational and commonplace people, gentle yet narrow-minded. Their worries seemed funny for me, but not for them.
I had been a happy child, except when I had to go to school which I detested: I was a bright student, but I hated the company of other children. Neither did they like me, they felt uncomfortable when they came near me or touched me. Thus they ostracised me.
Initially my parents and my grandma had noticed nothing unusual. They loved me (they still do), back then we could get along well. My parents and my grandmother had college diplomas and they could not imagine anything else for me.
I had not got any siblings, and I was happy this way. I was a lonely child, but I did not mind that. I enjoyed playing alone at a nearby abandoned construction site, in the garden, and, of course, I loved reading. The characters of my good old books, were much more real than my classmates. In my imaginary world I was safe. I spent my childhood by reading stories and creating my own ones. I am still glad to recall that carefree and delightful time.
As a child, I adored my grandma. She has been a tough and stubborn person, most people feared her, but with me she was different, warm-hearted and caring. As a little girl, I loved to play in her room, on her green carpet - that ancient dark green carpet still has been covering the floor of her room.
I was fond of Pink Panther. I even founded a Pink Panther Club, and could make one member join (it was my best friend, Zsuzsika). I hated dolls though. I knew they were sweet and girlish, yet I loathed them all the same. I had some dolls, I even played with them sometimes, but sooner or later I undressed them, cut off their hair and painted their faces blue and green with felt-tip pens, sometimes I broke off their arms and poked them with needles.
My parents were startled to discover that I loved weird things from the age of nine: Gory police news, horror films, Gothic novels. I enjoyed detailed descriptions of outrageous crimes: Women who murdered their babies; psychotic sect leaders who performed human sacrifice. I enjoyed elaborative descriptions of medieval torments. I read long articles about Karla Homolka and Charles Manson. I devoured stories about abused women. I could not understand what "love" was between women and men, but I knew about their games of control, and I suspected it was something dangerous and painful. I liked reports about prostitutes, either penniless Hungarian girls from the streets or the red light district of Amsterdam
Probably it was the first warning sign for my parents. They were the most rational and commonplace people, gentle yet narrow-minded. Their worries seemed funny for me, but not for them.
Chapter 1 - Letter of Feri
A good friend of mine has penned the following letter about me:
When I looked at her photo, I cringed, as if I have touched something cold and unpleasant.
I looked at it again. There was a lovely young girl in that photo, she did not wear a stitch of clothes. She had a firm, thin body, and she was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes.
She seemed strangely familiar; I thought she was a nude model.
I stared at the photo.
Mina! It’s her – I thought.
She was the girl for whom I had fallen a few years ago. Gabika, her best friend had introduced me to her. Back then, Mina had been almost twenty, three years my senior. Initially I had not loved her at all. I have always liked happy, friendly girls, ones with long legs and full breasts. Mina had been too thin, sickly pallid, and she had seemed commonplace. She had been spoiled and angry. I often had met Gabriella when Mina was there, too - she was there, sitting in a corner, with her nose in some book. Her presence, if anything, had unnerved me.
Then somehow Gabika had mentioned my hobbies and Mina had happened to hear the conversation. Her face had brightened up when she found out that I was in a Shaolin Kung Fu training and once I, by chance, had beaten up a fellow Shaolin fighter during a training and he had ended up in a hospital.
When she heard that, she had drawn closer to us. She had even told a few words, and had risked a look at me.
It turned out that we had had another common interest: Fantasy and horror stor fictions in Hungarian, which was our mother tongue. I tell you she wrote fine stories in Hungarian. She had worked for book publishers, and she knew a handful of editors personally (I always suspected that she had her romance with some of them).
I grew to like her. Later I did not understand how I could ever see her plain. She was striking, with silky brown hair and bright blue-green eyes. Her straight nose was prominent, her chin strong, her cheekbones wide, her dark eyebrows too thick, but I loved her face and slim figure. I also found out that she was quite a lover. True that there had been her „technical” cautions, but the rest had been awesome. She knew where to touch and how (both me and herself), and she had the sweetest mouth.
On a sad day she had disappeared without saying a word.
I could not found her via acquaintances, since we had no acquaintances in common (with the exception of Gabika who knew next to nothing: Mina had moved to Budapest and rarely had returned home).
Three years had passed by. Sometimes I had wondered where she must have been... and I had found her by chance on a sleazy webpage. Then I browsed the web for her, and found Mina Jade's blog, even a book. And nude photos. She was just as fragile as I remembered. For a moment I recalled how sensitive her nipples were, and felt a stir of excitement.
How did she end up as a stripper? She was too delicate, too proud - stripping was beyond her dignity. Back then, no male seemed good enough for her. Nothing seemed good enough for her, an ambitious and arrogant girl she was. She had great plans for her future – only the finest things. When I had the guts to laugh at her, she refused to talk to me for two days.
She had loved horror stories. Me too, but she had been obsessed.
She was interested, amongst others, in Báthory Erzsébet, the witch of Csejte, who had lived in the 16th century in Hungary and had been infamous for her gory crimes. Mina admired Lady Báthory, her interest was somewhat more intense than one could consider it normal. Other young girls admire actresses or models; Mina loved odd historical persons, in particular, females with ill reputation.
It was unnerving. Whilst she was intelligent and bright, her nerves were imperfect.
Once I, when she was not present, slipped a funny remark about her mental state to Gabika; she cringed and started to talk about something else. I dropped the subject and did not mention it anymore.
Probably that was why Mina started writing horror fictions. Her genre was a mixture of dark fantasy, crime, and horror, she summed it up in one word: Minacious.
She still writes weird stories. Sometimes I ponder what is true of her books and what is not, but I doubt that I would ever find out that. Mina is elusive when it comes to telling the truth. Truth and fantasy intermingle in her mind.
Worst of all, sometimes I think that, like Lovecraft’s character Pickman who painted demons, Mina has actually seen the things about she writes. How much of her memories are true?
One day I should ask her about it...
***
When I looked at her photo, I cringed, as if I have touched something cold and unpleasant.
I looked at it again. There was a lovely young girl in that photo, she did not wear a stitch of clothes. She had a firm, thin body, and she was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes.
She seemed strangely familiar; I thought she was a nude model.
I stared at the photo.
Mina! It’s her – I thought.
She was the girl for whom I had fallen a few years ago. Gabika, her best friend had introduced me to her. Back then, Mina had been almost twenty, three years my senior. Initially I had not loved her at all. I have always liked happy, friendly girls, ones with long legs and full breasts. Mina had been too thin, sickly pallid, and she had seemed commonplace. She had been spoiled and angry. I often had met Gabriella when Mina was there, too - she was there, sitting in a corner, with her nose in some book. Her presence, if anything, had unnerved me.
Then somehow Gabika had mentioned my hobbies and Mina had happened to hear the conversation. Her face had brightened up when she found out that I was in a Shaolin Kung Fu training and once I, by chance, had beaten up a fellow Shaolin fighter during a training and he had ended up in a hospital.
When she heard that, she had drawn closer to us. She had even told a few words, and had risked a look at me.
It turned out that we had had another common interest: Fantasy and horror stor fictions in Hungarian, which was our mother tongue. I tell you she wrote fine stories in Hungarian. She had worked for book publishers, and she knew a handful of editors personally (I always suspected that she had her romance with some of them).
I grew to like her. Later I did not understand how I could ever see her plain. She was striking, with silky brown hair and bright blue-green eyes. Her straight nose was prominent, her chin strong, her cheekbones wide, her dark eyebrows too thick, but I loved her face and slim figure. I also found out that she was quite a lover. True that there had been her „technical” cautions, but the rest had been awesome. She knew where to touch and how (both me and herself), and she had the sweetest mouth.
On a sad day she had disappeared without saying a word.
I could not found her via acquaintances, since we had no acquaintances in common (with the exception of Gabika who knew next to nothing: Mina had moved to Budapest and rarely had returned home).
Three years had passed by. Sometimes I had wondered where she must have been... and I had found her by chance on a sleazy webpage. Then I browsed the web for her, and found Mina Jade's blog, even a book. And nude photos. She was just as fragile as I remembered. For a moment I recalled how sensitive her nipples were, and felt a stir of excitement.
How did she end up as a stripper? She was too delicate, too proud - stripping was beyond her dignity. Back then, no male seemed good enough for her. Nothing seemed good enough for her, an ambitious and arrogant girl she was. She had great plans for her future – only the finest things. When I had the guts to laugh at her, she refused to talk to me for two days.
She had loved horror stories. Me too, but she had been obsessed.
She was interested, amongst others, in Báthory Erzsébet, the witch of Csejte, who had lived in the 16th century in Hungary and had been infamous for her gory crimes. Mina admired Lady Báthory, her interest was somewhat more intense than one could consider it normal. Other young girls admire actresses or models; Mina loved odd historical persons, in particular, females with ill reputation.
It was unnerving. Whilst she was intelligent and bright, her nerves were imperfect.
Once I, when she was not present, slipped a funny remark about her mental state to Gabika; she cringed and started to talk about something else. I dropped the subject and did not mention it anymore.
Probably that was why Mina started writing horror fictions. Her genre was a mixture of dark fantasy, crime, and horror, she summed it up in one word: Minacious.
She still writes weird stories. Sometimes I ponder what is true of her books and what is not, but I doubt that I would ever find out that. Mina is elusive when it comes to telling the truth. Truth and fantasy intermingle in her mind.
Worst of all, sometimes I think that, like Lovecraft’s character Pickman who painted demons, Mina has actually seen the things about she writes. How much of her memories are true?
One day I should ask her about it...
***
PROLOGUE
That day started so well. Everything seemed all right. My hands were neat, the abrasions and contusions were almost gone. I stared into the small mirror. This time there were no dark circles under my eyes, and my nose was not bleeding. I looked well-rested, even happy.
Warmth crept in the tips of my fingers; I touched them to my forehead. Warmth flew over my whole body.
Then something went wrong – like a short circuit in my head. I could not feel the warmth any longer. My reflection disappeared, instead, the mirror displayed non-existent images.
Insects, crawling in and out of my orifices. My once alive flesh, decaying. Insects inside me and under my skin. Dark, snowy, muddy streets on the seedy outskirts of the city. My bloody hands, digging into soil and debris, burying a man whom I had just murdered.
Surges of adrenalin shot through me. Anytime I recalled those things, red-hot fury pulsed in me. I threw away the mirror, it landed on an armchair and somehow remained whole. I snarled. When I had my rages, I needed to claw and tear something – so I tore my own flesh. I banged a fist against my leg. Blood spurted from the knuckles of my hand.
Then I saw the insects again. They crawled on the white, age-worn window-sill of my small room.
My mother darted into the room to hold me down. She grabbed my arms and pushed me aside. I fell upon my bed. My mother weighs much more than me.
„What’s that… again?” she snarled. „I’ve told you to be quiet! The neighbours will hear you!”
Why their opinion bothered her, I never knew. Had she been on friendly terms with them, I could have understood, but all she ever said to them was „good morning” when she scurried past them in the staircase.
Once my mother had loved me, we had been good friends. We had read together for hours, curled up in armchairs near one another, or had taken endless walks. How I missed those times! We still were friends, but my disorder marred our relationship. She was ashamed of my deteriorating mental health, and tried to hide it from others. She hated when I went out and others could see me, and if she needed to come with me along the street, she ushered me behind her back, fearing that we could meet an acquaintance. However, at home I hurt myself, banged my fists against the walls (neighbours must have heard it indeed in those small flats), and when I went out, I looked haggard and sickly thin, I wore the most unflattering clothes, and talked to myself aloud – so anyone could notice that I had something wrong with me. I did not care about others’ opinions. One thing mattered: That I would survive this and would never detest myself again.
Once my mother had been a gentle, warm-hearted person who had loved nature and flowers- Now she was angry and weary, she grew old well before her time, a web of small, sad lines were there around her eyes, and wrinkles in the corners of her mouth. It was my fault.
I also harmed my grandma. I caused only a couple of scratches and bruises, but our relationship did change. Once she had loved me more than anyone else, at least I thought so. Now I noticed that she was selfish, even more so than me. I do not know whether she still loves me so much.
Since my grandma and I were so close, denying my love for her meant denying myself, my past.
My self-esteem was gone as well. I could lose all my self-control, so I could not trust myself any longer. True that under normal circumstances I am not dangerous. It is also true that I did warn my grandma not to come near me when I… So, she could have known better.
Anyhow, hitting a frail old woman was unforgivable. No wonder that my mother hated me.
I risked a glance at her. She was still turkey-red.
“Why did you cover the mirror in the hall?” she said. “Don’t make this place look like a fucking madhouse.”
“I saw the insects again” I said.
She flinched, but her face did not change.
“They’re on the windowsill” I added.
She looked there. I followed her gaze. No insect was there.
“They don’t exist” she said.
“They most definitely do. You’ve already seen them!”
She fell silent for a moment.
“Are you crazy?” she said then. “I’ve never…”
“Yes you did!”
She shrugged.
“You should go to see a doctor…”
She has been insistent on sending me to a psychiatrist. I refused to visit any, I was not one to ask for others’ help, it was embarrassing. And I had difficulties with trusting anyone.
My mother knew about the insects, and she did see them. Gabika, my high school friend, also saw them.
My mother, however, did not know about SXMT. Neither did she know about my invisible friends like Elena and Jeff. She, of course, did know about Elena herself, but she did not know that I have actually met her. Once I tried to talk about Jeff to my mother, but she seemed scared, so I never brought up the subject again. My mother did not know about the girl from the mirror, the presence in my apartment, the signs on the walls, the baliknife that sometimes I had in my pocket and sometimes I could not tell for my life where it was. She did not know about the murdered infants from which insects crawled out.
Anyway, she would not put it past me to commit homicide. She said she would not be surprised if I tried to murder my closest family members. It hurt me when she told so.
Even if I told her about the murders, she would not believe the part about SXMT: She would think that I imagined SXMT and actually murdered someone for my delusions.
“Hey” she said. “You may fuck up your own life the way you want, but you’ve no right to disturb others. It won’t make things easier if neighbours will hate on us…”
I got to my feet, drew closer to her and made an awkward attempt to hug her. She pushed me away.
“Why don’t you love me?” I asked.
„I do… but I hate to touch you” she said. „You are so thin… and…”
She did not even try to comfort me. Healthy people are usually repulsed by me. However, I would not refer to myself as a genetic wretch any longer. Vanda, my best friend, had been furious when she heard that expression.
“They’re not insects but…” I said, but my mother cut me off.
“I don’t care what they are! I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t care about your nightmares. Don’t think about them and they’ll disappear” she said, and left the room.
I sat down in my favourite corner onto a soft nest of comforters and switched on my laptop. I still loved my room, it was tiny, cosy, and still held some warmth of my childhood. I missed my friends in the city, but I could not stay in my apartment alone.
I felt a brushing touch on my left arm. I looked at it.
The skin was moving – as if something was scraping beneath it. I hissed, and clawed at my flesh until it bled.
Warmth crept in the tips of my fingers; I touched them to my forehead. Warmth flew over my whole body.
Then something went wrong – like a short circuit in my head. I could not feel the warmth any longer. My reflection disappeared, instead, the mirror displayed non-existent images.
Insects, crawling in and out of my orifices. My once alive flesh, decaying. Insects inside me and under my skin. Dark, snowy, muddy streets on the seedy outskirts of the city. My bloody hands, digging into soil and debris, burying a man whom I had just murdered.
Surges of adrenalin shot through me. Anytime I recalled those things, red-hot fury pulsed in me. I threw away the mirror, it landed on an armchair and somehow remained whole. I snarled. When I had my rages, I needed to claw and tear something – so I tore my own flesh. I banged a fist against my leg. Blood spurted from the knuckles of my hand.
Then I saw the insects again. They crawled on the white, age-worn window-sill of my small room.
My mother darted into the room to hold me down. She grabbed my arms and pushed me aside. I fell upon my bed. My mother weighs much more than me.
„What’s that… again?” she snarled. „I’ve told you to be quiet! The neighbours will hear you!”
Why their opinion bothered her, I never knew. Had she been on friendly terms with them, I could have understood, but all she ever said to them was „good morning” when she scurried past them in the staircase.
Once my mother had loved me, we had been good friends. We had read together for hours, curled up in armchairs near one another, or had taken endless walks. How I missed those times! We still were friends, but my disorder marred our relationship. She was ashamed of my deteriorating mental health, and tried to hide it from others. She hated when I went out and others could see me, and if she needed to come with me along the street, she ushered me behind her back, fearing that we could meet an acquaintance. However, at home I hurt myself, banged my fists against the walls (neighbours must have heard it indeed in those small flats), and when I went out, I looked haggard and sickly thin, I wore the most unflattering clothes, and talked to myself aloud – so anyone could notice that I had something wrong with me. I did not care about others’ opinions. One thing mattered: That I would survive this and would never detest myself again.
Once my mother had been a gentle, warm-hearted person who had loved nature and flowers- Now she was angry and weary, she grew old well before her time, a web of small, sad lines were there around her eyes, and wrinkles in the corners of her mouth. It was my fault.
I also harmed my grandma. I caused only a couple of scratches and bruises, but our relationship did change. Once she had loved me more than anyone else, at least I thought so. Now I noticed that she was selfish, even more so than me. I do not know whether she still loves me so much.
Since my grandma and I were so close, denying my love for her meant denying myself, my past.
My self-esteem was gone as well. I could lose all my self-control, so I could not trust myself any longer. True that under normal circumstances I am not dangerous. It is also true that I did warn my grandma not to come near me when I… So, she could have known better.
Anyhow, hitting a frail old woman was unforgivable. No wonder that my mother hated me.
I risked a glance at her. She was still turkey-red.
“Why did you cover the mirror in the hall?” she said. “Don’t make this place look like a fucking madhouse.”
“I saw the insects again” I said.
She flinched, but her face did not change.
“They’re on the windowsill” I added.
She looked there. I followed her gaze. No insect was there.
“They don’t exist” she said.
“They most definitely do. You’ve already seen them!”
She fell silent for a moment.
“Are you crazy?” she said then. “I’ve never…”
“Yes you did!”
She shrugged.
“You should go to see a doctor…”
She has been insistent on sending me to a psychiatrist. I refused to visit any, I was not one to ask for others’ help, it was embarrassing. And I had difficulties with trusting anyone.
My mother knew about the insects, and she did see them. Gabika, my high school friend, also saw them.
My mother, however, did not know about SXMT. Neither did she know about my invisible friends like Elena and Jeff. She, of course, did know about Elena herself, but she did not know that I have actually met her. Once I tried to talk about Jeff to my mother, but she seemed scared, so I never brought up the subject again. My mother did not know about the girl from the mirror, the presence in my apartment, the signs on the walls, the baliknife that sometimes I had in my pocket and sometimes I could not tell for my life where it was. She did not know about the murdered infants from which insects crawled out.
Anyway, she would not put it past me to commit homicide. She said she would not be surprised if I tried to murder my closest family members. It hurt me when she told so.
Even if I told her about the murders, she would not believe the part about SXMT: She would think that I imagined SXMT and actually murdered someone for my delusions.
“Hey” she said. “You may fuck up your own life the way you want, but you’ve no right to disturb others. It won’t make things easier if neighbours will hate on us…”
I got to my feet, drew closer to her and made an awkward attempt to hug her. She pushed me away.
“Why don’t you love me?” I asked.
„I do… but I hate to touch you” she said. „You are so thin… and…”
She did not even try to comfort me. Healthy people are usually repulsed by me. However, I would not refer to myself as a genetic wretch any longer. Vanda, my best friend, had been furious when she heard that expression.
“They’re not insects but…” I said, but my mother cut me off.
“I don’t care what they are! I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t care about your nightmares. Don’t think about them and they’ll disappear” she said, and left the room.
I sat down in my favourite corner onto a soft nest of comforters and switched on my laptop. I still loved my room, it was tiny, cosy, and still held some warmth of my childhood. I missed my friends in the city, but I could not stay in my apartment alone.
I felt a brushing touch on my left arm. I looked at it.
The skin was moving – as if something was scraping beneath it. I hissed, and clawed at my flesh until it bled.
Friday 21 October 2011
Biography
I was born on 14th October 1985. I have always been fond of books, any kind of them. Horror/Gothic is my favourite genre since the age of ten. I started my writing career in my teens; I sent my first fictions to publishing houses, some editors of Szukits Publisher encouraged me to write. This is how I decided that I would be a writer. Being strong-willed and uncompromising (stubborn as hell and unable to cooperate), I went to self-publishing soon. I have already self-published a collection of horror short stories. My first novel will be released in the first half of 2012.
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