Chapter 1 - Fear

Isn't it amazing, when fiction and reality become one?

I lived life like anyone else does. In school, the people who knew how I lived called me a hero. Overstatement. Adults are so scared, I think they're more afraid of dying than young kids. I can understand, they spent their whole lives trying to get a specific job, they're scared of losing it. They spent their whole lives looking for their special someone, they're scared of someday falling into the cliché scenario of coming home early from work and finding their significant other in bed with someone else. The only thing I was truly afraid of is the feeling of helplessness. That feeling when you put your hands down and say 'there's nothing else that can be done.' It's a bittersweet feeling, you feel like your job is done, like there's nothing more you could do, like no matter if you worry or if you go home and sip some tea and sleep the afternoon off, the outcome is the same. Or there's the dread, the fear that you screwed things up so badly that there's nothing you could possibly do to fix it. That's what I was afraid of.

I was scared one day one of my children had gone out with their friends and drank one too many shots and ended up in someone's messy house, in a dirty sofa, under the scent of wine, screaming for help, with no one there to help them, no one but people who 'like to watch'.

I was scared one day one of my children would be in kindergarden and other children make fun of them because they're ugly. Because they're strange. Because they're fat. Because they didn't have a father.

I was scared one day one of my children had to go through anything I went through.

But I was mostly afraid that one day, one of my children turned out like me. Bitter, sitting in the dark, in the midst of clutter and space, people trying hard to open the door through the barricade they created to separate from the outside world. All the clothing on the floor, all the plates sitting around the room, the plates they "couldn't bother" to take out and wash.

Oh, I remember it like it was just yesterday. I was a young woman, aspiring for a career in the show business. That was also the name of the major theatre group. It was called "Show Business". Oh, I was so young, so naïve.

I ran around, looking for a place where I could fit in. I could not possibly fit in where I was placed. I was put in the midst of children, immature and with absolutely no perspective of what to do with their own lives, they seemed to me like they'd never reach my level of maturity.

At the same time, I was just as immature, or more so than all of them. I put myself in that situation. I let go of my responsibilities and told myself that life would solve itself in the end.

I had impossible schedules. Waking up at a certain time. Two minutes later, pray. My knees on the ground, praying for my plans to work out. Praying for nothing, sometimes I'd pray for a minute, sometimes five, sometimes I'd kneel there, in silence. I never prayed on my own. I needed a reminder. An alarm. A sound voice to scream at me that if I didn't do as the machine told me to, my entire day would be ruined. And if my entire day was to be ruined, my entire week would also be ruined. And if the week was ruined, the sucession of such failures would cause me to subsequencially ruin my entire life. Only because I didn't pray at 5:06 in the morning.

I was so proud of who I was. My personality. I loved myself. I thought there was no other seventeen year old who was as mature and had such formed goals as I did. But at the same time, my whole life was so shameful. I was ashamed of my routine. I was proud to say I did this and that on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Sundays. But what I said I did was only a portion of what I did.

I was afraid of the dark. Afraid of being mocked. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of leaving. Afraid of staying. Afraid of never being a mother. Afraid of never being a wife. Afraid of never being anyone. Afraid of never being loved. Afraid of being unlovable.

Proud of being seventeen at night, when I had men as old as my father whispering what they'd do to me, as I emptied another bottle of vodka from the bar. None of those women were competition. I was seventeen, I had the body of a woman, wore clothes that got men thinking that it wasn't really difficult at all to get me kneeling in the bathroom floor, if they paid me enough. I was ashamed by day. Backpack hanging in one arm, hoodie big enough to fit two of me, hair as messy as could be, bloodshot eyes, sleeping through class, trying to hide the number in my books, so that the senior boys wouldn't see that I was four years behind my age. "How old are you, seventeen? Why are you with the thirteen year olds? Do you have some sort of learning disability?", yeah, that one learning disability where you lie in bed for months, because "the alarm clock didn't sound".
I was proud of telling people I was employed, once I got with my friends and spent the money I earned the night before, yet terrified of never finding an actual job to support my children, if I ever had any. I was terrified of never having money. Starving to death. Wearing the same clothes for two days in a row.

I was so proud of how intelligent I was. Yet I broke down crying in every recess. The math teacher looked at me in the eyes and explained to me how numbers and letters worked together and turned the world into what it is today.

And I nodded. I agree, I understand. I know. I don't know. I have no clue of what you mean. I hate numbers, I hate mathematics and I hate you as well. I hate all of you. I hate this x in front of my answer. Why is it wrong? Am I not smart enough?

She laughed when she saw I had an error in my paper.

- I thought you knew this. - She said. - You are so intelligent. But you are always wrong.

You are always wrong. You are always wrong.

I got home crying, again. He was sitting there, his eyes amused by the videogame he played with so much heart. I put a smile on, and approached him. His eyes turned away from the screen, and focused in my cheery eyes. My happy smile. Even so far, his blue eyes understood. 'Why were you crying? It's just maths', I thought. But he didn't. He didn't think I was dumb, he didn't ask if I was sad. He just knew. We just stood quiet and he explained, again.

- I want to be a math teacher, you know? I love children. - He said.

He tried so hard to achieve his goals. Studied so hard. Passed every course, accomplished every goal he set. Unlike me. I was a wreck.

- I love you. I love you. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me. - I said.
- You're perfect. - He said.
- I don't know maths. How would I be a good mother, I can't explain why two plus two equals four. I'm going to be a terrible mother.
- You don't have to be amazing at maths to be a good mother. Let me take care of that for you. I'll teach them maths. You teach them how to sing. How to speak Spanish, and Japanese, and Portuguese, and how to write, and how to become poets, and superheros, and princesses, and cats, and puppies, and chefs, and bakers. I'll teach them math. You teach them to love.
- How would I teach children how to love?
- The way you taught me.

He always knew just what to say to ease me, to diminish the damage they caused. He always knew just what to do.

This particular afternoon, he got up. He got up and he sat by me. He held my cold winter kissed hands, with his warm hands, they were soft from the controller, and his smile was as awkward as ever. As awkward as I knew it would be before I entered the key in the lock, and walked in. I didn't know what to say, we had replayed this scenario so many times, but he'd never gotten up. He'd always cheer me up after math class, but this was the first time I tried to hide it, and it was the first time he had stopped doing what he does to come over and hold me.

I twitched, told him to step back, that I was cold, that it was too cold outside.

- I have to take a hot shower. I'm tired, I'm going to make some tea, and then I'll come play video games too. Or maybe I'll slip inside the bed, I don't know. I need to think a little. - I said.

He turned his face towards me, looking into my eyes, but I didn't want to look into his, It was too intense, only I knew my sins, and I knew he didn't know. I knew he hadn't a clue of what I did. I knew he understood my demons, but he wouldn't understand my escape. He thought sitting together, watching cartoons, and eating noodles together would make it all better, but we both had a right mind, just not right actions. He dreamt, and saw me as a girl I wasn't, and I only stayed because I pretended he was what I needed.
And maybe he was. But I didn't know that back then.