Repression is a Vice

Somebody murdered my inner child.
It happened sometime in the night, with a stabbing knife that was meant for me.

The child was on the throes of death while I lay peacefully sleeping, and I woke up to find that things were not as they were before. Sunlight had filtered through the blinds, stale and indifferent.

(Is this how I’ll be seeing the world from now on?)

I did not know at the time that I’ve already lost her, and maybe you can imagine a little how I felt when I did find out.

I saw her, then. She was about sixteen, with dark locks and slender fingers. I could not tell whether her gray eyes were inherent, if it was because of death, or if she had them because she was stark and empty inside. There was no blood. Only sadness, and mute bewilderment.

I gently guided her lids shut. Her lips formed a small frown; her skin, a ghostly white. And I realize, aghast, that I was the cause of her sallow condition.

She was young, free-willed…beautiful. But I chose to believe that my fears do exist, and that I was no better than anybody. She was neglected, unappreciated—by me—and yet she chose to save me, to end her life for my sake.

It was a death she did not deserve. What she deserved is happiness, freedom, life…and yet, she received none of it.

I walked around the city, empty. I imagine her cringing every time I walked looking down at the pavement, when I should’ve held my head high. Sick of me thinking that everybody is quietly judging my every move. Deprived of love. Weary of hoping. I lost touch with her, and all she could do is hug herself in a corner inside my body, living off the little warmth I have.

Perhaps she wanted to die. Maybe I deserve to know what it’s like to lose my inner child. I suppose she did not want to exist anymore, and died in my place for her own sake.

I went back and I watched her until she was no more than a faint flicker; and when she was gone, a cold wind dried away the trails of my tears.

I walk out of the apartment building. I stroll down the streets and notice something different. An old man was sitting on a bench, feeding pigeons. Beside him a little boy smiles adoringly at the plump birds. A woman sits on a bench, contemplating the pavement. In front of her a teenager, staring her right in the face—upset. There are children everywhere—smiling, tugging, clinging, frowning…crying.
 

They are happy. Miserable. Indifferent.
It was easy to tell.