my dear grandfather – affectionate in his old age, mischievous in his youth.
He had always been a sharp, troublesome person; he was to some extent the typical Italian macho. Dark hair, dark Spanish eyes, sunburnt olive skin, broad shoulders, he wasn’t very tall, roughly my height, but much stronger. Only the hands we had exactly alike, with long and slender fingers; the hands of a baker – this had actually been his lifelong job. He used to get up even before cockcrow to start his work, and he needed nothing but his full, warm baritone voice as company, one that was friendly and reassuring, and which I heard again on my dreamlike journey.
Our meeting was really comforting. He put his calloused hand on my shoulder and whispered not to worry, that everything would work out: he understood me, and knew how difficult my days had been so far. Indeed, thorns and weeds grew along my emotional path, and blisters formed on my feet. I was very dejected.
He knew what I was going through. He had been a partisan leader and had fought Mussolini’s regime. He loved freedom and this was why he had been given his name: Libero. He was free; he was ethereal. He was a spirit now, claimed by a sudden heart attack in 1996.
So sudden that at the time I hadn’t even had the strength to see him before the burial.
Now, though, he was in front of me, just as I remembered him: olive skin, still dynamic and concerned about his granddaughter quickly becoming a young woman.
Yes, a woman; on the inside I would become a woman. I still perceived myself as harmless and naive, but I knew that much had still to occur and that life could be long and full of troubles.
It seems that for each of our talents, God gives us a whip for self-flagellation: mine is guilt. And it was guilt, alongside my tolerance of children, to result in another nightmare.
__________
My pupils focussed on a child appearing out of thin air and instantly running after me; not even a smiling child: he had fangs and claws that could devour and tear into flesh. The little creature might literally rip me apart. He was also crying – a rather blood-curdling howl – which simply terrified me; it made me sweat and shiver uncontrollably. I had always been very emotional, a true ‘feeler’ in fact – experiencing fear, in this case.
Feelers are sensitive and empathetic people. They love a quiet life, smiles and children; suffer from guilt; keep to themselves.
But I couldn’t shut myself away now since the angry child was chasing me and crying, screaming like the howling wind.
I was afraid to face the beast and, with it, the loss of innocence it stood for. I hadn’t once saved what was worth saving, so my conscience still hounded me. I could do nothing but escape, again.
And I didn’t have the heart to harm a child, so I just ran, despite my uncomfortable heeled boots. They caused a dull pain at my every step, along with skin wounds and blisters. It was a constant torment.
I then fell on my elbows, and was forced to crawl with even more effort on the brown wooden ground; slippery and hostile, it was as cold as the child’s eyes. I knew I deserved this coldness since I hadn’t sufficiently protected children in my life nor loved them enough, and that was why they were all coming back to me in the shape of this monster. A bitter yet productive meeting: I had to pay for my mistakes but I was also ready to admit them.
At that moment another upsetting vision came forwards, of a little girl bound in a rope and being bounced against walls; what was worse, I couldn’t prevent her from getting hurt. She was slippery, seemingly covered in oil – going in all directions, unpredictable.
She was the very picture of the confusion I felt inside my head.
I didn’t know whether to protect her or save myself from the monster that was still chasing me, the little boy trying to grasp me and howling: “Why, mum?”
The word paralysed me, since – although I love children – I have never seriously entertained the possibility of being a mother and starting a family myself. I have always regarded it as something too far in the future, far from me; a limit to my expressiveness and – I hate to admit it – a loss of elegance for the female body. Although taking care of a child may be rewarding, each time I had my friends’ daughters toddling around I feared that the pests would break something or hurt themselves.
But then, there are children and children. There are babies who are peculiar since birth. I mean, we all have our quirks; but children abusing animals, for example, is a clear warning for everyone. It is a fact that some serial killers used to mistreat animals as children, and I thought it was the case of the child chasing me in what had become a dirty woody cabin full of chambers.
From his violence in breaking random objects I could sense that he had never received love, but also that he carried evil within: having been abused, he now enjoyed abusing. It was a kind of evil that spread by touch like an illness without chance of survival, that would chase you down relentlessly and destroy you slowly, in the end. It was as dreadful as it was persistent.
I knew I shouldn’t keep on running away, but react sooner or later, yet I still didn’t feel sufficiently strong myself to make such a decision.
I had to prevent the boy from harming me, and the girl from harming herself. I needed a plan, a strategy to subdue the monster and save her.
Meanwhile, my shoulders hurt too: it was my usual reaction to stress. For instance, anxiety before exams had always led me to contract my shoulders inadvertently, with negative repercussions on my shoulder blades and cervical muscles.
Still, I had to act now.
I moved so that the little girl wouldn’t collide with the wall but with me; I hoped that the push would soon decrease. The rope that bound her was torn but very resistant. I tried to grab it, but the child – still covered in a thick layer of oil – slipped away from my hands each time. It was a dark substance, like tar, and it cost me further exertion.
I felt dissected by my pursuer’s eyes, and feared death coming any instant, with each single breath. The little boy was my conscience, and as such he gave me no peace.
Conscience is what keeps you awake at night, looking endlessly at an unchanging ceiling. It makes you go through your whole life – past and future – in an instant; then you have to choose.
I chose to save the child. I might die, I might be torn to pieces, but I had to pass this test.
I hoped I would gain strength on my way and learn not to flee any more, unless it was strictly necessary. Something within me was changing, and maybe it was for the best. What encouraged me in my fight was – paradoxically – a wish for peace and justice, that innate conjunction of goodness and dignity of the heroes in the stories they told me as a child.
On my part, it meant never accepting evil, without any compromise, because previous compromises had led to fleeing, to humiliation and low self-esteem. I couldn’t stand depression any more, I needed to fight it. In fact, I wanted to save the girl also because I saw myself in her uncertain sway, torn between one decision and another, confused and insecure.
I had to act on impulse when she was in my proximity. I would try to cut the rope, but by what means? Maybe the penknife I used to slice my reserve of dried meat, as well as the berries I was so fond of. It was small and rather ruined, but it would serve its purpose, since the monster wasn’t far from me.
I launched myself head first, thinking that she could be my daughter
