The worst of all consequences was having lost childhood with such rush.Maybe if it had happened later, today I wouldn't feel so tired.It is there, in the past, where all certainties fader;Although it seems strange, in addition to distressing me, the darkness comfort me.At least I know there is a dark side that will never be revealed to me.Some deny the past, because it does not exist;But I know it's there, even if I don't see it, and that being saves my life.My lost past.
I left home at eight to go to school, that tells my mother.I walked the two blocks to the avenue, folded towards the square, and when crossing the last street, a car ran over me.I hit my head against the pavement.I lost consciousness.I was in a coma in the intensive care room.Doctors didn't know if I woke up.I did: I woke up two months later.There was no one in the room;I only saw lights.Only when moving my hands I was aware that I was more than a thought;It was also a body where that conscience inhabited.There were no words in my mind, this is my first memory;And that emptiness, that no concepts, was so light, so happy.A nurse opened the door of the room;Seeing her, I felt a deep disappointment, I don't know why, but it was so.The woman, a forty and yellow -haired forties and smell of washing clothing, entered the room pushing a metal table full of bottles, tablets, cottons and serum of serum.He left the table next to the bed, made some annotations in a notebook, changed my serum knob and then left without looking at me once.When I closed the door I could not return to La Paz from the previous nowhere.I still did not recover the concepts, but it remained, without recognizing it, a feeling that something was wrong, that there was an unpleasant, smelly existence beyond the door.I closed my eyes instinctively, looking in the dark the recovery of my nothing;However, I found that in my retina the flashes of the fluorescent tube were repeated, without defined contours;They were like long rigid and whitish snakes blurred on a black blue background with more stars than a sky on the sea;And behind those snakes two twin faces were formed: the nurse.I opened my eyes frightened.The room returned to my conscience and my conscience returned to the room giving tumbos, jumping from sector in sector, side by side, again and again without stopping anywhere.I looked, desperate, a point to set my attention, my eyes, my thoughts.I found it in the vase about the dresser.I put my life, that life that I sensed but that still did not idealize, in the forms of the vase.It was a yellow vase, thin, and it was empty.There was a foster perched on the edge.I was able to hear the flush of his legs rubbing.Stopped rubbing them but the sound remained.I was not in my ears, it wasn't a recreation of the sound that my mind made.It came from the vase and became increasingly powerful, more, more, until he got stunned.I didn't shout, I couldn't, or didn't know how to do it.I closed my eyes again, but this time, instead of finding that sky of red stars, I saw the door of the room opening, the fly fleeing, then the nurse entering again, and with her a doctor, I saw them look at me, theI saw running towards me, I heard them, they called me by my name, I saw the images accelerate until they were nothing more than a white spot and then stopped dry: I saw them die.First to the doctor, then to the woman.I shouted, this time I shouted;I had heard them speak and immediately recovered the words, the concepts, I definitely lost nothing.I shouted, this time I shouted.The door opened, the fly fled and then everything else, repeating the scenes of the room as he had seen them.I was not witnessing the rest, but I know what happened, it happens and will occur;I know when they will die since I looked into my eyes.
Since then it is enough for me to look into the eyes of a person to know everything from life that remains.It was enough for me to look in the mirror to learn about mine.
I would like to be able to completely forget everything, like my past.
Everything, I know.I knew since then that forty years later I would sit to tell him these words.I knew since then the day of my death.I knew all my future life, I knew what I would know and I knew what I will never know.Since then I write my life about already written phrases;I follow the line of a letter that sometimes, sometimes, I recognize mine.
When doctors allowed my parents' entry, I knew they were my parents not because I remembered them, but because I saw that in their future lives I would be their daughter.I also saw the day and the circumstances of their deaths, but since my parents did not remember, those deaths did not affect me more than those of the doctor, the fly and the nurse.I think I never felt daughter's love for my parents.Maybe before, but I don't remember;I know, but I don't remember.They have died, I did not cry them.They died every day since I saw them die.When the day came to them, I did not cry, I did not feel them, I will not miss them or miss them.Every time a life related to mine is extinguished I feel a slight download, a relief in the soul.With them, although I did not love them, out of respect I repressed my joy.No, I didn't cry them.And I know that nobody will cry for me.
My recovery was fast;A week I left the hospital.The doctors said that my memory loss was a consequence of the blow and the long dream, but that over the days I would recover it;fed that speculation that I showed to recognize aspects of family life;But they were not memories of the past, but of the future.I knew, for example, that in my house we had a dog because I saw my parents playing with him.I saw them there, in the hospital, but I saw them from the window of my room, as happened a few days later.
Upon waking, everything for me was a discovery and at the same time an anachronism.Everything was new and spent, rained on wet.I was scared of what I lived but in the same way that babies must be scared when they appear in the world.I did not believe that my condition was something abnormal;I immediately assimilated it as something that simply occurs and should happen.I would never have occurred to my parents that I could see the future, it would have been as dumb as they could breathe.They discovered it (and I knew they would do it) for the comments they issued as if they were part of a trivial conversation.
What a pity, dad;Today you will lose the documents, he said, in the middle of breakfast;My father laughed, then lost the documents.
The first time, like the second, they didn't tell me anything;My parents looked perplexed, wanting to believe in coincidences.But the third time I anticipated an event, they alarmed.They flooded me with questions that I didn't want to answer;I still hate the interrogations.I forced myself to shut up.And I kept silence for days, until in an oversight, seeing my mother preparing dinner, I told her not to bother because Aunt Constanza would bring pizzas.Aunt Constanza did not wait, ten minutes later the phone rang.It was the aunt warning that he came to visit us, and that he brought pizzas.My mother altered, shouting asked me how I knew what Aunt Constanza would come.Didn't you know?I asked perplexed.
-No how to know- my mother said, even more perplexed.
Finally they accepted that I had a gift.They called it.The word sounded like an old man and mustaches, I disliked.But in them, although they were no longer alarmed, a restlessness persisted that some night brushed in the pathetic.My father, for example, more than once insisted that he tried to hit the number that would come out in the lottery.The first time he did, he looked ashamed, but when I told him that he would never win the lottery (that is what he saw in his future) and that he would help him give him any number (which he did not see on the other hand), he got angry with me and sent me to bed without dessert.I wish I could give him the number he asked me, but it was useless to insist and press myself because I could only know the future in relation to people and not the future detached from them.If I had seen it winner of the lottery, it is clear that it would not have been a merit of mine.I have never created the future.
Over time I learned to dominate me.Upon turning my fifteen years I was no longer invaded by the future of the people who looked at me but when I allowed it.The process was long and very painful.For years I avoided looking into my eyes.Everyone believed that my attitude was smooth and plain shyness.But it was more than that.It was terror.It was realizing that my gift was not something that everyone possessed;I felt at a disadvantage with the world.How to talk to a person who could immediately see the good and bad that hid his soul, the day death would cut his existence?I knew it, they don't.The domain, however, only served me with others;With me I only achieved a hypocritical denial, a forgetfulness without forgetting what I was ever to happen.I kept it like this, inaccurate, doing the impossible for missing the details.Rarely managed to do it with the mediate, never with the immediate.Knowing everything consuming me the will;However, heaviness and reluctance were not the reason that, for example, he did not attend to the phone when he sounded: he did not attend it because he knew in advance that he would not attend it.I think that even my feelings were part of a decision, a fatalistic abandonment, a slow and rishing waiting for death.
I fell in love with that boy because I had to do it.And I accepted it yet knowing that I would fool me a thousand times.And I gave myself to him knowing that later I would tell who would like to hear him.But it was written, I only toured the strokes of that letter that is not mine.I didn't cry either.It was the only and last time I felt something for a man.Love will never go back to my life.I know from the first day.And yet I kept looking for it, because it was written that way.For my bed and through my legs, so many men and so many names passed.And of all of them I knew they were not mine;and of all of them I knew their deaths;And of all of them I knew their lives.Of all of them I laughed.Not for evil, but by providential design.
Mommy: you don’t know how to make seafood salad Me: Ima figure it out Us: https://t.CO/TRANCLGWTCN
— She Who Remains 🦹🏾♀️ Wed Jun 16 00:19:19 +0000 2021
When I turned my eighteen, my father gave me a long sermon about life and its responsibilities, about what I should and not do (to me, that I knew everything and life was already bored), and about independence.I would have wanted to cut it dry and ask him not to continue, he already knew what he would tell me.But it was written to shut up and I did so.I let him be the one who completed the strokes on that page, his page.Anyway, what he told me (and I knew what I would say) was that I should start thinking about my future (I wanted to laugh), that I had to study or work, I had to do something about my life.You are right, I replied.And since then I made a living reading the future in the eyes of the people.
It hasn't gone wrong (I knew that it would be);I have won enough to become a short time after that talk and live without shocks during the next ten years.
My first client was a co -worker of my mother, much younger than her.His name was Alexandra, thus, with X;She hated her name.I liked his appearance immediately;It was of an indefinite beauty, as if her features were still to be completed.Almost childish although it was around forty years.In his gray eyes I perceived the desire.And I also wished.I gave my room in my room.I liked.And best of all, I knew I would like.Then we talk about your future.He left disappointed.I told him that his life would be exactly the same until the day of his death.I didn't see her again and I will never do it again.Will die within five years.
It was the only and last time I had relations with a woman.I will not have them again.
My arrival to the town, as you will understand, was not accidental;Nothing is casual.I am very exhausted to tell the past events, not only because I have to strive to remember them, but because I have lived them two and more times.I lived them at the time, I lived them anticipating them.Some of them, this one that I am going to narrate, especially, demanded days and days of fighting with me, with my condition, with my destiny;Why, I wondered, why it has to be so and not otherwise.Why can't I know it, modify my future.The claim to modify it was so absurd.How to call the facts that will never come?The written is written is.Do you know that Pilatos said when the Jews claimed to modify the poster that he ordered to hang on the top of the cross?The one that Jesus Cristo King of the Jews said.Not gentlemen, the written, written is.So, understand me well, it is more than justified that I wash my hands for what has happened and will happen.Are you interested in knowing when you will die?Don't tell me, I know no;But he is interested to know if he will have found a good reason to die, although he prefers not to be forward and it is written that I will not do it.
My first contact with the town was in Buenos Aires, in the person of a man named Belisario.
Belisario worked for the refrigerator;He was a kind of mandadero, although sometimes he also negotiated sales with full decision powers.I first saw it at Café La Perla, on Corrientes Avenue.I took my snack at a table adjacent to his.He saw that he took a cigarette out of the wallet and automatically offered me fire;I usually reject this type of progress with indifference, but it was written that he would be accepted, that he would look in the eye, that we would go to his hotel's room, which would fall in love with me.
We made love;He with awkwardness and some fear;I without surprises.Then we fall asleep until mid -morning and, when we wake up, we stayed in bed until noon noon.We do not talk;He because he was too disturbed with the immediacy and proportion of his feelings;I because nothing might interest me that I didn't know.Your past?So that.The past are a pure tautology of the future.Just see what was going forward to know what will be behind.We had lunch at the hotel restaurant and already at the desktop asked me if I would like to meet the town where I lived.I was determined that I would say yes.
We went out in the middle of the afternoon, when the sun of that winter was still warm.We arrived in the night.It rained.He stopped at the door of his house, turned off the motor of the car, and then what he owed happened: he suffered a heart attack.I saw him fading, terrified not because of death itself, but for the life that was drained.I don't know what future he had imagined with me;I am unable to read the mind, I only see the future.He was going to die that night and I knew.
I got out of the car;The rain fell with strength.I took off a handbag that brought with me and headed without a hurry towards the pension where I would stay for a long time.
Have you ever felt the feeling of being lost in a place that you know as the palm of your hand?That was what I felt when I got to the pension.It was the house I knew, the night and the door that corresponded, however deep in my soul I was afraid;The fear of cowards to the unknown.If it was logical, says?Of course it was, it was written that it would be.Sometimes I think they are incentives that God allows me not to fatigue me with indolence: the possibility of an anxiety before sex, a distrust in front of a plate of food, of that fear of which I spoke to him.Others, on the other hand, I suspect that they are mere reflex reactions of the past that I have forgotten;The future as intuition of the past, and the past as a mold of emotions.I knew what would happen in and from that house;Something so strange to my daily life, hence fear, hence it seemed unknown to me.But of the two possibilities I prefer the first, that of God.It is a way to get rid with which he punished me with this gift.What will have been my sin, or that of my parents, or my karma?I do not know.If I believe in reincarnation?I can't say it, my vision is limited until the day of death.I know when I will die, but I don't see anything beyond my death.It can be as you say;Maybe there is nothing beyond;or just a faint reflection of the here.Anyway, and it is others to be advised because anyway he will dare, do not worry about these issues: he will never be given a reasonable answer, not even one with the forms of faith;You can never boast of being a man of faith.What do I know what I think I can't read the mind?I am not reading your mind, but the pages that you will ever write.If you are sincere with what you write, then I'm sorry to tell you that there are few secrets you have kept for me.
I found out a neighbor of the town that Luisa hanged a few months ago with the rope of hanging her clothes.There was a note in the room, supported by the centerpiece.With a neat, almost drawn lyrics, he said: "It was written".
