I'd like to consider each part a story in itself. While I always connected the characters with each other, something felt different in each part. It's a story about many aspects of our thoughts, some of which never have touch with reality, and some...
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Heavy breathing. Bright lights. The beeping sound of the heart rate monitor. Pain. Headache. Clock ticking. Heavy rain outside. Sweat.
I woke up in a hospital room, I knew that from the smell of death and disease. I am not sure what happened, and what has led me here, but I am awake, finally.
I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was that empty bottle of whiskey, staring at me as if it wanted to say that he was here. A black lighter sat next to the bottle, pointing to the door which was slightly ajar, enough for the neon lights to slip into the room and meet my eyes.
Still, with all the voices around me, -the rain and thunder, the ugly buzzing sound of the light bulb, and the water drops in the sink inside the bathroom of my room.- the ticking of the clock was the most annoying. It was pointing at 4 AM, my favorite part of the day.
Next to me was a table, with papers, medics and an old newspaper on it. I need answers, I thought.
I went off the bed, but my legs were too weak to carry me, so I leaned over a chair to help me reach the window. "Ugh, I need some painkillers." There were some on the table, so I took two pills.
I noticed a medical report with my name on it. But my memory was blur, I wasn't even sure if that was my name or not.
A gun laying next to the window caught my eye. Looks like a police officer is here, or was. He probably went outside, maybe to the restroom or to smoke a cigarette. At least that's what I think.
"Have I committed a murder?" Thoughts began to rush inside my head. I leaned on the window again, just watching that beautiful view of darkness and rain, while the sun was trying to break through the clouds, to rise and end the coldness of the world. I like this time of the day, everything seems more pure, more clear and more colorful. The rains find a way to connect everything together, for when it falls, the people, the streets and the sky become one.That view reminded me of my early days in this world, when everything was supposed to be good. Not for me.
"Even in the best times, these memories will haunt me."
I remember my father, a man who did not know what is the meaning of mercy. He was the priest of the town I grew up in. I was only 12 years old, and there was rain outside, heavy rain, when I first saw him hitting my mother with a belt. At that time I didn't understand why. After three months, I heard my mother praying to God to make him quit drinking. I was shocked at that time seeing my mother crying because of a man who was supposed to be a good, a man of God if I might say. But then I got used to the view every night.
I remember, my sister, Alma. I miss her. She was older than me. She was 5 when her father died, and my mother remarried. But that beast did not let me be with her, "It's a sin!" he said, "The devil will be waiting for you!".
My father drinking habit got worst as the time passed. He started to hit my sister too. This was something I couldn't handle, but there was nothing I could've done back then. The crows shivering calls in the night made the sound of her weeping and screaming less painful to the ears, but the images my mind created were not easy to endure. She was 20, and I was 15 when I couldn't take it anymore. I heard him coming out of Alma's room, and he headed towards his room. For my luck, my mother wasn't there. I went to him rushing to make it right forever, with a knife in my hand, I stabbed him 35 times, one stab for every night he abused my sister.I saved her, but I had to run.
