Of Smoke and Mirrors

Entry: 28th of January, 1955


-1 ºc. Unpleasant weather followed by a snow storm.

I was never on top of the class regarding my clairvoyance abilities and yet lately they seem to be stronger than ever. It has been two days since my last journal entry and it appears that my ongoing personal dilemma has been answered by fate.

It turns out there is no rational answer to it. To attack or to perish, in the face of real danger there is not quite much left to do than to succumb to our survival instincts. If I were to ask myself while bearing a clear state of mind, would I have ever consider the possibility of taking another life away, I am strongly positive that the answer would be no. It is not in me to hurt others and I do not know the feeling of bloodlust. And yet, I have killed someone. This sounds completely illogical, but I have figured that reality is not always coherent. Perhaps because sapient beings are not coherent themselves…

On that note, father’s reaction to life in general continues to baffle me. I have already spent too much paper and ink on this subject but the latest events caught me off my guard. The last fight has left me both emotionally and physically wrecked to the point that I no longer remember what is like to be in a “normal” state again. I suppose that after being stabbed, splashed by blood and roughly sewed up (not in a million years had I thought this would ever happen to me) the ghost of the man who I call father would show signs of slight concern. I was struggling to keep conscious as I arrived home and saw father sitting in my dining room waiting for me. I barely remembered our conversation, only the overwhelming pain and efforts of refraining from fainting on the spot. Regarding my condition, he treated me distantly and strictly as usual. I recall thinking that person’s heart has really shut down after the passing away of mom and that no other living creature, not even his children would restart it again.

But I heard concerned in his voice. It startled me! I could not escort him to the door, however sitting from my armchair I could hear him turning back and wishing for my quick recovery. That was the last thing my tiny heart could handle that night. I immediately asked Marianne to help me to my room, hoping a good night of sleep would be able to put some of my anxiety and suffering to rest. It did not, but that is something I would rather not describe in detail. For now, I will keep it hidden inside a little Pandora Box and wait for the right moment to defuse it…

A tremendously tedious week awaitens me as I have to behave in bed (or in my prized armchair contrary to Marianne’s complaints and pleads to stay in bed) and make sure my wound is healed completely. The doctor comes by every morning around 10 pm, carefully and meticulously executing his healing magic to the point that I can see progresses from a day to another. I truthfully wish the scar will not be noticeable, for I am still an unmarried maiden.

For today’s thought I would like to finish with a tribute to my father’s slumberous sensibility:

-filius est pars patris
A son is part of the father.



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