The Unknown

Part 7

XII

"Where have you been? We were worried about you," asked my mother taking the suitcase inside the house.

"I had some business to take care of, and here I am," he said.

"What kind of business that concerns a seventy-year-old man?" she smiled.

"Some grass in my old days needed to be mowed, and I have taken care of it," he said.

"You are never cured of your misleading answers, are you?" she asked hopelessly.

"I don't think I will," he smiled.

I sanded to watch this conversation with a pounding heart, worried for a reason I am not sure of, yet.

My grandfather stole a few glances at me stealthily while talking to my mother. She led him to his room which hasn't been opened since he disappeared. Lifting my inquiring eyes off him was a huge task that I wasn't intending to try. I followed him to his room, opened the door, and closed it behind me.

I interrupted his comfort once I got inside, but he never spoke a word.

"Grass in your old days needed to be mowed? Seriously?" I started.

"Cody, I suggest that you sit down so we can talk. It'd be better to take it easy on yourself as well," he said.

I tried in all my power to keep myself together because it was not the right place to freak out in. I glanced a chair next to the door, which I grabbed to sit on.

"Talk about what exactly? About stories that I heard from dozens of people about how a cruel man you are? Or about a dead body, I found my car and almost imprisoned for it? Maybe we should talk about a note paper that says 'You are going to pay for that' in some part. What do you want to talk about?" I wondered in a progressive tone.

To my surprise, his facial expression never took a reaction to my speech, neither disapproval nor surprise.

"I have the right to explain it all, right? So it would be better that you turn down this sound of accusations and listen to me "he said

I caught my breaths and took my position on the chair, getting ready to hear what he had to say.

I don't know if it is right that house 32 belongs to me, to my ancestors. It's also right that I committed all the alleged murders attributed to me. But you have to understand that the matter is complicated. It is still complicated even to me, I don't utterly get it.

When I was 27, I started my life in Macvils where everything took place. I found an apartment, found a job, and found a wife to marry. My life was stable and balanced like it should ever be. Until that day showed up. I was late at work that day, so I had to be the last man standing in the carpentry. I finished whatever I was doing at 3 o'clock in the morning. I locked the place and walked on my way home. House 32 crosses the road between my word and my flat, so I had to cross by it every day, twice. I was walking by the house when I heard a loud scream that shivered me to the bones. I rushed to where the sound was coming from to see two men in a narrow alley. One of them had a knife, I thought he was threatening the other for his money like many thieves do, but I wish I was right. The man stuck the blade in the victim's throat several times. He died in no time and the killer disappeared in the next second. I think I was lucky he didn't have a chance to see me, or they could've been two corpses. I got near the dead man to see how the scene looked like in real life. I knew killing in cinema isn't that close to the real-life, so I took my chance to see the first real dead body. Once I saw the blood, I felt dizzy and blacked out next to the man. When I woke up, I found myself in a hospital, surrounded by a dozen people. I really felt ok after what happened. The problem is that the scene was more tragic than I've expected. I left the hospital on the same day and went home to keep up with my normal life as if nothing has happened. Two weeks have passed after that, they were boringly routine. One day I woke up to find myself laying on the street's floor in midtown, with a knife in my hand. The spot was hidden for the most to notice, so nobody saw me there. When I found myself unable to remember anything, I headed to a therapist that I knew. His bill was expensive but the sessions were valuable somehow. He diagnosed me with Dissociative Identity Disorder-if I remember the name well. He told me that the night of the incident I witnessed, I had some psychological shock thing, or whatever. I am not aware of stuff like that, you know. My life didn't include much excitement that gave me the chance to get exposed to subjects like this. A man of wood, that's me, that's what I used to do, carpentry, and only carpentry. I mean, I am obsessed with reading, but not none of what I had read seemed familiar to this. The therapist told me that I had something like another personality sharing my body, my actions, and my behaviors. It comes out when I see something connected to blood, murder, or anything related to physical violence. He wakes up from his sleep to take the role of my consciousness and my body. He has been thirsty for blood. It started with times that I woke up from my blackout to see a slaughtered rabbit or a cat by me. I didn't know about all this stuff on my own, the therapist told me,"

"Wait," I interrupted

"Dissociative Identity Disorder patients ignore the existence of the other identities they have. They don't know how many identities are there, or what do they do, or anything about them. How do you know all this?" I wondered.

"Yeah, I am aware of that, but I don't know how I know all this, maybe the therapist told me, but I don't remember really. I don't know why this other identity thing does whatever he does. Sometimes I want to get rid of, and other times I found it the way that gets some adventure in my life that I am not responsible for their consequences.

"Aren't you? Aren't you Responsible for all the brutal actions you or whoever you say lives there in your body have committed?" I marveled.

He stared at me for a minute without moving an in inch.

"I can't say for sure. I don't know if blame could be shared between me and him. I've lived in Macvils many years to remember, people never hated me that much or even hated me in any case. No, I am not responsible for any of that and I wish that this nightmare ends in a heartbeat. That other identity must be obsessed with that house 32, obsessed enough to falsify an ownership contract that proves it belonged to me. It seems to show the need to defend the place with all its power. I don't know if the whole thing is just some psychology complications, or it's some demonic thing that's possessing me. He just makes sure to keep me safe to keep up with his work, and I want it gone, with all its side effects"

I thought about his story for a few minutes to connect all the events together.

"So why did you –or that other thing- kill the receptionist if he didn't step inside the house. I thought it was some kind of defense, that you were protecting me from something that hasn't treated me well. What about this note that says 'Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to be mean'" I started getting up from my chair to open the drawer where the notepaper was. I took it out of there and unfolded it to make him read it, but I didn't really consider the fact that it was smeared with blood, and he had seen it.