Ephemeris

9 : More Lies will Unfold Ahead

March 3, 2030

Dear Luna,

Many sunrises have retired. I've become too busy and haven't kept track of the time, stuck between the past and the present. There were happy moments, like cooking with Nurse Samuel, treasure hunting with a mouse, and having new imaginary playmates, Mr. Lens and Lady Mondragon. Yet, most of the time, I was in long-suffering pain, challenging my patience during difficult times, clenching my fists when that tragic night recurred. The memory is hurting, so I find ways to divert my focus—by distractions. Tiring my body helps me for a moment to prevent the flashes of disturbing memories from ruining my day.

Time became my jury, and it didn't favor any of my pleas. Day after day—from when you were carved out from the womb—time has been my warden. With its lidless eyes, it successfully forced me to stay in our home, punishing me. I submitted many prayers of petition that someday, time would lift a few of my burdens, but it sacked them. It was shameful. But it was just, I assumed. For months, I found myself lifeless, looking afar with vacant and weary eyes. My mind couldn't think straight, stuck between grudge and remorse and fantasy and reality. My madness was just a hair from my sanity.

I knew that one day I was going to crack. While washing the dishes tonight, I engaged in a conversation with my own reflection in the mirror. It mirrored my physical features, including eyes, hair, and more, yet its thoughts and emotions diverged from mine. He, my alter ego, the opposite side of my persona, tapped my shoulder, saying that the past is the past, and we cannot do anything about it. He convinced me that it was never my fault for murdering you. It was all an accident, a wrinkle in time already written like a prophecy meant to be fulfilled or happen.

"But why?" I asked myself.

For me, it was very unfair if we left our destiny to whomever, an invisible mystic, too perfect, intelligence so infinite, the dazzling supermind and mastermind to decide our path, which must be happy or sad, rich or poor, successful or futile, and who must live or die.

I don't know anything. I am not that smart. I am just a boy. Well, things got messier year after year, every decade. I can't tell who is good and who is bad. Or what is right and what is wrong. And everything happens for a reason? It's not very clear or easy to understand. Some tweak the wrong right, while some stab the right wrong. Everything I see, taste, and feel is somewhere between the light and dark—the dull gray gradient. The world is a mystery, an abstract of chaos. It is a place for both angels and demons. The whole lot seems to be a lie, and more lies will unfold ahead.

Can we revisit our story, Luna? Let us recall it. We were in the kitchen. I was dribbling my ball, and Mommy was trying to prepare my favorite meal. I was playing to impress her with my dribbling skills. I dribbled harder and faster, and she turned the faucet and drained the pasta. It was a happy feeling for me and for her to see her boy improving day by day. I, a self-absorbed, attention-seeking brat, pushed myself harder, dribbling new tricks. And then, I drew closer to her.

My bliss grew into horror.

The ball slipped from my hands, bounced to her belly, and the glass casserole dish fell. The ball kept bouncing, and she slowly sank into a heap. The casserole dish crashed on the floor and burst into blunt pieces of shards. She was bleeding, and you, a child inside her, were wheezing. It was my fault that the ball slipped. There was no one else to blame. I had the ball, and it struck you. I was the one who wrote your destiny and our family's fate—a lovely home that turned into ruins.

I couldn't bear the pain of your doom and the damaging ripples after it, up to now and the days that will follow.

There were moments that I hated myself, flogging my back with the whip of excruciating guilt, pushing my muscles to move and survive. I kind of like punishing my body until my head and muscles ache. I gnaw the inside of my cheek, hungry for forgiveness, fuming for what I have done, angry for what I am—a loser. Unknowingly maybe because of anger, I was coerced to bite my underlip and run my tongue over my lips, tasting the bitter blood of a criminal.

Every time I remember that horrible night, I question, "Why didn't I play my ball outside far from harming you?"

I imagined an incandescent light swaying back and forth as the investigation marched on. I came up with twisted answers around my silly head, confusing the panel and myself. Maybe I was doing it because I planned to get rid of you. There was Mommy, Daddy, and me for the longest time. There was so much love to go around, and then you came. I used to have all their love, time, and attention. And then, all of a sudden, there was no place for me—the firstborn—a brother in the making.

I didn't fit anymore in the family picture. You got Mommy and Daddy completely fooled. Perhaps that was my motive that day. My brain gears were getting rusty, and its nuts and bolts were loose. You, a special babe, a gift from paradise, drove me mad. In this version of a sworn statement, it was not an accident after all. I was precisely a suspect, and you were the victim. "How do you plead?" I asked myself. "Guilty," I replied.

Saying sorry for robbing your life seemed too small of a gesture. I will never forgive myself.

Punish me, and it will be all right. Demand to chop off my clumsy hands, remove my eyes and ears, better if you kill me now. You gave me a bad dream, tormenting illusions of killer ravens and grim apocalypse—and in the end—I fell. I was engulfed through a bottomless abyss, and I died in vain.

I am very tired, too tired.

I need to sleep.

Good night.

Sincerely,

Daniel