The list of sinners

...Donovan...

A cold breeze touched my skin that was uncovered by the blanket. In it swam gently a chamomile scent that offered peace. I blinked a few times until the faint fingertips of light could slip under my eyelids. After a few blinks, I turned my head amidst pains on my right side.

Along my pillow flowed tangled red hair that continued down to the lower part of my belly. I slightly moved my head. Celia was lying in the empty part of the bed with her legs hanging off the edge, almost touching the ground.

I felt the soft skin of her hand that I had wrapped around. My hand, oddly, had held hers as if afraid that the night would take her away. She had stayed beside me all night, now surrendered to sleep, still holding in her hand the damp cotton cloth she had soaked all night with chamomile water.

I gently released the hand I had held. I tried to pull up my blanket and cover her, but it only resulted in disturbing her sleep. Her hair started to move away from her face, revealing her wondrous redness. She lightly rubbed her eyes with one hand. Her eyes quickly met mine, shining with a gentle light.

"Donovan, are you awake?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to wake you," I said.

"It's okay...How do you feel? Do you have a lot of pain? Do you need anything?"

A barrage of questions rained down on me.

"I'm really fine," I said.

"I'm very happy that you're okay, Donovan, although it would be better if you were under the care of doctors."

"That's how it should be..."

"Why do you say that?" she asked, raising her eyebrows in surprise. "Can you tell me what happened last night?"

"Do you think with my current condition it's the right time for this question?"

"I'm sorry, but I was thinking that this... well, this was the moment for us to get to know each other."

I had always been curious to know why most people wanted to know about others' lives. What drove them? Curiosity? Compassion? Or simply the desire to know your mistakes?

"Celia, trust me, you wouldn't want to get to know me," I said.

"You're right, Donovan," she sighed. "I don't know you, not at all, but I have no way of understanding you if you don't let me get to know you."

"I... I'm not like you think."

"We all have chapters in our lives that we don't want to read out loud, Donovan..."

"I don't want to talk about my life," I said, almost shouting. "Just leave it, please."

I turned my head away, not wanting to look her in the eyes. I felt the blood rushing inside me, not wanting the nervousness to escalate beyond what it was.

"I-I'll be downstairs."

That sentence came out of trembling lips. She took the empty basin and hurriedly left. From the tone of her voice, she seemed troubled and somewhat hurt. I wasn't anxious about her at all, but about myself. Anxious to the point of nausea for what I was. My bones were stained with sins, burned by fires, shattered by betrayal, chilled by loneliness, and finally soaked in blood.

I feared that if I showed her who I was, she would gradually see me as I had seen myself for so long. And with that fear, I was hurting her. If you're afraid of the rain, even a gentle shower seems frightening, but fear doesn't live in the outside world, but in our minds. When it knocks on your door, you're afraid to answer, but those who answer that knock respond by asking, "why am I afraid?" And then they find nothing but the gentle sunlight and rain in their garden. And I didn't know if I would find gentle sunlight and rain in my garden.