The Unborn

 

Other children are particularly susceptible to child murder. I went to the bus stop where I met my friends every day. I was just under sixteen at the time. It was summer vacation, so there wasn't much to do. The guys would always roll a beer, so we'd hang out, chat, laugh, and have a drink. That's how the days of the long-awaited vacation flew by. I didn't enjoy going to school because sometimes the teachers would make me so angry I thought I'd explode. I didn't say a word, just sat at my desk and tried to calm myself. I guess that's what vacations are for, to get rid of the aggression accumulated during the school year. Each of us standing at the bus stop came up with our own idea for getting rid of it. When you live in a town where a car passes every few hours, there's not much to do. Sometimes I even envied those living in the countryside, because at least they had chickens and cows to keep them occupied. And I just stood there in the silence. Supposedly, the holidays were supposed to cleanse me of my anger, but sometimes I didn't know what was happening to me. Anger also welled up inside me because it was too quiet. Sometimes I didn't know if I was normal or abnormal, because I concluded that any situation could trigger anger. Even peace and quiet. And then, most often, I would feel the urge to do something bad. And I would think to myself that I'd been so obedient to my parents and teachers for fifteen years. I supposedly thought I was independent, but when it came down to it, I always did what they told me. That's why I often wanted to do something bad, to surprise everyone that I could do it too. I thought about getting my navel pierced; it would definitely surprise my mother and everyone else. But that would require a greater effort of will, because normally, even when I was walking in the park, I was hesitant to step onto the lawn; I'd just walk along the paths. I was afraid someone would notice and yell at me.

Now I feel a bit silly for thinking that way back then. But what can I do? I thought that and that's it. Maybe if I'd been born in a different time, or in a different city, or with different parents, or in a different minute. I like that last one the most, because then I definitely wouldn't be me, but someone else, and someone else would have to suffer. And I wouldn't be here, and that would be so cool.

It was summer vacation, and as usual, we were sitting at the bus stop. Wojtek had brought two cases of beer. He said his brother worked at a brewery and got a whole case every month. I was a little unconvinced, but who cared? If there's beer, you drink it. I didn't know then that the worst part was that only he and I were at the bus stop that day. I don't think I'd ever drunk so much beer. Thinking about the situation at that bus stop now makes me sick. I didn't know how to tell my mom. Should I tell her at all? I didn't. We lived alone; the poor thing would have broken down. She'd been sad and despondent for as long as I could remember. That was several years ago. I'd forgotten about it. I was surprised that I was okay. I'd often watched the confessions of women like me on TV, and they couldn't contain themselves, crying. I didn't even have time to get ready; I simply left the hospital and was glad the problem was solved, that my mom hadn't found out, and that I could go to school in September.

A few days ago, I came back from Kazimierz. My friend and I walked around the neighborhood for hours. One walk took us through the cemetery. Graves were everywhere, full of mosquitoes, and it was quiet. We walked down an alley, and in one spot, there was a small, solitary grave. It didn't seem too controversial to me, because when someone commits suicide, priests always bury them in isolation, or if someone wasn't baptized, there's no room for them in the crowd either. The grave wouldn't have piqued my interest if it hadn't been for the gigantic inscription on it: Grave of the Unborn Child. The doctor had said something else, that a child isn't a child until it's born, so when he took it out of me, he put it on a tray next to me and said it was the same piece of meat you'd find in a store. I even smiled because I found it quite funny; it really did resemble a pork neck. It lay on the tray by the sink, and I stared at it for a moment. The room was bright, the sun was shining through the window, and the nurse was talking about her nail problems. She came over to me, grabbed the bed frame, and wheeled me to another room. Several other women were lying there with empty bellies. It wouldn't have occurred to me then that necks were also buried in cemeteries.

I came back from Kazimierz and I'm only angry now, years later. If only I hadn't thought of meat on that bed. I'm ashamed now that I believed the doctor. They brought me to a room with other women, and not for a split second did I wonder why each of them stared at a single spot in the window for hours, not saying a word. I just called a friend to ask if she'd checked our class schedule for next year. I didn't have any thoughts related to the case. Only now do I feel guilty, but only because I still don't have them. Why don't I? I already know I've been deceived. All I can understand is that something terrible happened, but it's beyond me. It's as if my mind allowed a true thought, but my heart didn't. I don't know what I'm capable of anymore. I don't leave the house; my only contact with the outside world is online. I give myself the nickname "Karkik" and search for excuses and explanations in articles, advice, statements, and questions.

If I could evoke appropriate reproach, I could write on discussion forums when I felt bad. Women would write to me, comforting me, and I would believe I wasn't the worst. Then I could look someone in the eye, not just at the screen. I searched, trying to find someone in a similar situation. To no avail; each woman regretted their actions. How I envied them. After months of searching, I came across a woman's statement. I wondered why she had posted her experiences on this particular website. Perhaps she was searching for a suitable statement just like me, but couldn't find one, and finally, she cast her vote somewhere. The text was as follows:

"Finally, the fruit of my loneliness cried. I did too, because I didn't know how to contact him. Just like the last few months, I also thought I felt sorry for him. He met the wrong person at the wrong time. In fact, I'm angry with him for depriving me of a choice, and someone with more power added another descriptor for me - mother. Rationally, I always chose solitude, and now I won't leave you. My hair stands on end at the thought of being in a relationship with someone who, for a moment, allowed me to release accumulated thoughts and emotions as a result of the desired solitude. I thought, what can I give you? I can only promise that I will work on myself to be able to at least tolerate you. I'm not saying I don't like you, but I don't care about you. The only thing I can offer is to be there and promise not to leave you. I'm sorry that it fell to me to watch me all your life, and then what you do will depend on what I do. I'll do what I say, what I feel. From now on, I'll play little god. If I want, I'll be able to laugh at you or make you cry. The hope is that I'm considered a good person, so maybe I won't feel like doing that to you. I wonder if, since we met in tears, we'll part in tears as well. Maybe this crying is an allegory for the word from which we come and into which we transform in the end???"

I wrote her a letter. She replied that she hadn't been able to keep her promise and would have been calmer if she'd gotten rid of the problem earlier. Now she's tormented by the thought that she doesn't care at all what's happening with her child.

I finally got the impression that someone else is in a similar situation. She wrote a return address on the envelope. It was mine.