As soon as I got off the chairlift, I dashed downslope, closing my eyes. That was probablly how you lost control of the tight squeez at your thighs and went full speed till you hit the tree.
It has been nine years. I still felt the wound, as if I could still smell the blood, bleeding warmly in a snowland. What an image. It was my first ski, and the last. The only thing I achieved that very night were bruises, bled wounds and a car key for which I saved someone's life. The girl burst in tears seeing me holding onto her car keys and I smiled back. Afterwards, I was unconscious.
My stomach throbbed with pain. For several nights, consecutively, I found myself awaken in the middle of the night, despite how tired I had been. The clock read four forty four in the morning. The streetlight was still on, no sign of first ray of sunrise.
In the dark, I stared at the flickering dimmed streetlight penetrating the blinds and interacted with the ceiling fan.
Even though I have got the whole world, I could not find myself sound at sleep, I could not ease my mind and allow myself to waste time, simply staring at the ceiling.
It's worse than the mad woman in Perkins's story because there is no wall paper, at all.
I recalled long ago FDB reminded me, of the danger of over interpretation of symbolism, of omens.
"Sweetie, you've just got to be careful with those. A close look at what you wrote, you might have been too engaged in the interpretation."
Maybe he was right. I was going too far. Did not know what to respond, so I lowered my head.
"You are wallowing in your own world and shutting people off. And you know that's not good."
Later on, he explained that by saying that I was getting off onto my own world, he was not saying I was narcisstic.
"On the contrary, I found you might even find it uneasy to stand and look into the mirror. That evasion and elusion were signs of self-loathing."
Ironically, FDB was relying on signs as well, for interpreting what he thought the problem of me being the way I was.
Years have gone by, FDB passed away and you died in the accident. I am still haunted by the omens.
When I was riding my bike home yesterday, I heard the cawing of the uncanny calls from the crow, as if they were foretelling someone's death or calamity. They are known to be intelligent and sensitive to low-frequent sounds. Maybe they have the capacity of hearing the sound of death, or detecting the smell of deterioration, of anyone, of any forms, of anything. Maybe.
Perhaps FDB was right all along. I am reading too much into portents. I have been a faithful believer in mythology after all.
The pain in the abdomen seemed to be graver and sustained. But I am still waiting for the last straw.
(Is graver even a word? Or this false cognate appears also as an uncanny?)