"Everyone carries a shadow and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is" -- Jung, C.G. (1938), Psychology and Religion

A short story written by a very special friend, click here to see her blog!

I committed a murder. I killed the woman I was supposed to love. After I did this, I did not try to hide the body, I did not wash my hands or change my clothes and I will not run away. After I did it, I left her outside: it’s the first thing they will see when they arrive. That should thrill them. Then, they will come and get me, holding their badge in one hand and a gun in the other. It’s useless; after all I’m the one who called them. I know what they are going to do to me. I will not to resist : I know I have to face the consequences for what I did. It doesn’t matter now if they lock me up; at least I got to taste a bit of freedom. 
    While I wait for them, I decide to go back in the house where I grew up and wait quietly in my old room. It feels as though I've been sitting in this room my whole life. Right now, I'm sitting on my old bed, covered with glowing particles of dust and memories. This is the bed I use to drown in when I felt unsafe. When nights lingered and I could not find sleep, I would think of derailed things that led to bewildered dreams. I’m facing the wall and it’s almost as if it absorbs my gaze. It surely feels strange to be back here after so long. Nevertheless, I had to come. 
     I look around me. Everything looks decayed. It all looks dead and I rapidly start to feel grim. There's an old transparent vase filled with troubled water, a broken clock and the unwashed windows are covered by jittery blinds. The smoke of my lit cigar mixes with the gleaming dust. Everything feels like one big blur. I feel so cut out from the world. This room leaves no space for imagination, the room lets nothing out. I continue to stare at the wall and notice its blazing yellow color so bright and vivid. I float through the room and the ongoing sound of my footsteps painfully reminds me of the times when I couldn't walk away. I wouldn't let myself. I loved this house too much and especially this room which I thought of as a sort of protective fortress. I just hated how unhappy we were within these walls and above all I loathed my mother. 
      My father bought this house for us when I was much younger. He had this vision of us three being a perfect little family, protected from harm and insanity. In the course of time, my mother grew mad and unbearable and so my father left. He vanished along with the futile dreams and hopes. I think I heard him when he fled or at least I heard the sound of the door closing on us. It was discreet and prudent. It’s conceivable that I just dreamt it but it's impossible to tell. From then on, everyday was a nightmare. By and by, my mother became this frightening hysterical monster. She would laugh and scream for hours. She would dance and sing to music she created with the rhythm of objects and furniture bursting on the floor. Then of course, she would sometimes be extremely brutal with me. In ways I achingly remember: She would hit me, tell me terrifying stories and humiliate me until exhaustion. 
   The only place I felt composed was at church. Although my mother was an atrocious devil she insisted on attending mass every Sunday.  I loved watching her, silent, deathly still, and appearing so weak and so small. It was in these moments of quietness that my mind was the most agitated. At first I portrayed her lying down, sleeping; then lying down in a coffin and finally. In very dark times I imagined myself pushing her, still awake, into a stifling underground box full of worms and snakes. I tried to wash away the evil thoughts with holy water; I tried to be led by the kindness and the love of the priest's lectures. Still, the thoughts lingered in the depths of my salacious mind. 
    I couldn’t help but think about what it would be like if my mother wasn't around. In other words I wondered what life would be like if she died. I had dreams where I would kill her. Everything then was alright; I couldn't hear the screams or the banging on the walls anymore. It’s a damnable thing to despise your mother so much you start to wish she would fall asleep and never wake up. All she needed was a little push. As time passed I pictured myself pushing her. Of course I could not do it and it was not because she was my mother. It’s just that I didn't want to be the kind of person capable of achieving something like murder.
    One morning I awoke to the sound of a loud scream, a terrible scream, the voice of my mother. The alarming wall helped me out of my dizziness and I ran out to my bathroom. There I found my mother, denuded, sinking in a bath of steaming water and blood everywhere. She was dead. She did this to herself and the only reason she screamed was so that I could find her like this. As if she had not terrified me enough. I did not feel sad, I did not feel relieved. I loathed her relentlessly. She died like she had lived, in complete hysteria.
   Today I'm convinced I'm a better man. I’m a common man I mean, like everyone else. I do admit in being perhaps, too orderly but I find blessedness in my placid organized life. In my life, each day resembles the next, no surprises, just a plain safe routine; a life built upon habits. Some people apprehend this way of life as if the human being had to have an infuriated beast inside of him, thirsty for disorder. You say boring, I say comfortable, you call it excitement, I call it chaos. I’ve had enough tumult in my childhood so I’d rather settle for something quieter. I laugh a bit because of all these thoughts and this life I built on buried hatred. I’ve been good, and I’ve been bad. I’ve been a victim and I’ve been a culprit. 
     I swore I would never come back to this place. Every time I'm here I feel very dark. I have bad Ideas and the dreams do not help. But I met this girl a few months ago and she insisted on visiting my old house. Of course she insisted. She was a loud one. I feel weak at times beside her, like she’s abusive. Funnily, she reminded me of my mother. I don't know what it was exactly. Maybe it was the barbarous way she brushed her hair, or the way she harshly stumbled on the chair at dinner or that emotionless stare she had in the mornings. I was quite magnetized by her but at these times where she reminded me of my mother, a deviant hatred would fill me up. It’s like I suddenly really despised her. 
     She said she liked the house. I needed some time by myself so I left her in the garden. She was sitting on a rock. I recalled memories of my mother sitting on this rock and images of the rock crawling on her. Then, I called the police and told them about what I did. Now here I am, in this room. I find myself facing this wall once again. I remember as a child, it was as though it spoke to me, whispering words I was not able to hear. I tried to silence as much as possible, cutting my respiration, sitting still like a stone, desperately hoping the words of the room would finally come clear to my brain; but I always ended up falling asleep. 
     Ever since my mother's death I've had this recurring dream, a dream in which I distinguish the same faces, voices and whispers. I find myself in the same settings, performing the same actions, undergoing the same puzzling nonsense. When I wake up I find myself in a very distressed state and it’s often impossible for me to find sleep after it. Looking steadily at the wall makes me drift away to unknown places and it all feels vertiginous. I’m trapped within this macabre room and these walls are as thick as tombs. I try lying down to get rid of the feeling and I’m now staring at the ceiling opening up like a coliseum. I imagine translucent clouds becoming more opaque as they come down on me and I too have become diaphanous. Maybe it’s best if I close my eyes. As I slowly fall in a deep sleep the dream finds me once again. 
    I’m thrown to a building’s hallway. The hallway is eternal and has numerous red doors. A woman is behind me and she softly says, “come.” I combust and unanticipatedly fall on the floor of what seems to be some sort of asylum. A fearsome crowd of loonies all dressed in white assaults me and they’re shouting at me, “Why did you do that?” Their voices are like thunder. They force me to sit in a small wooden chair. I feel beat up; my clothes are wet and torn to rags. Then an old tramp jumps on me, points his finger between my eyes and says, “It’s him, I’m sure of it! You see officer, I was feeling a bit lonesome and so I wandered in the streets and wondered about things like life and death. And there he was as clear as the thin air that surrounds us!” An earsplitting sound silences all the screams and everything fades out. I’m in a park; a child is smoking a cigarette. She’s laughing at me and asks, “Sir, why do you act so stern and stand so still?” I do not answer, in fact, I ignore her. She jumps around me and says, “My mother says you shouldn’t put a plastic bag over your head. Of course, my mother’s words are gibberish” A silly boy with a harlequin suit gallops up to me and gossips, “Do you see that green girl on the tree branch? Soon she will fade and her smile will fall on you with her tears crawling down her marble cheeks. This blue child over there can’t even recognize his mother; when she sleeps she looks like a stranger.” At first what the boy says does not move me but I then spot my mother sitting on that rock. She remains undisturbed, static and deathlike, with a fiendish look in her eyes. Her pupils dilate and her eyeballs roll around, it’s like I'm inside her now. In a dark clutter of organs, a colossal amount of carmine blood submerges her body. I walk to her and sit beside my agonizing mother. I smile and my smile extends all the way up to my ears while I regurgitate a daunting sanguine flow. Every time I try to turn around all I see is myself, mirrors everywhere-I hate mirrors. I start speeding and eventually I run, fast, too fast. Nowhere. This image is terrifying and startles me to death or to awakening rather. How did I even fall asleep, the dream was inevitable. I’m quite shaken by this and it's hard to wake up from such a vivid dream. In an attempt to calm down, I decide to go outside and visit the beautiful woman I invited along.
    The weather outside is damp. I hear the voice of a woman pronouncing my name further away so I follow the voice. I am surrounded by an oppressive fog but I’m not lost. As I walk through the ceaseless brume I remember words in the bible like “judgment”, “lake of fire” and “damned”. I recall running, standing, crying over rotten regrets. I recall paradise, hell, paintings and drawings. I meander aimlessly like a twisted vagabond until I finally stumble upon a corpse. The corpse rests on dense grass. Its skin is lush and almost lavender colored. It’s my lover. I can finally see her angelic face and her abysmal eyes stare right to me. Last time I saw her she was sitting on this rock but it appears that the rock now sits on her. I take a good look at her. She looks peaceful, I’m pleased. She nicely lies on the ground covered with bruises and left with a broken heart.
     Moments after, the police arrived and they took me to their station. It’s as if I don’t remember quite well how they brought me here. The room I’m now in is much more somber. I feel lethargic, maybe they drugged me. I can’t see well like I’m blinded, or just tired. There’s a light hanging over me, swinging back and forth and again back and forth. The door behind me opens. I want to turn around but I notice I’ve been attached to a chair. One man comes in, or maybe two. A man yells, “We know you did it!” and again, “Poor poor girl, they say she was deformed when they found her!” The brusque door closes abruptly and another voice speaks, “That’s enough. Leave him to me” An old man comes and sits in front of me. He’s the doctor, the alienist. He’s the one who will determine whether I’m a criminal or just a troubled man. He introduces himself but I don’t listen. He takes out a pen, a small notebook and says, “Now, why don’t you tell me a little bit more about yourself” I think a bit and then I start, “ I’m quite the normal man. I wake up every morning at 8 o'clock am sharp, even on weekends. I'm just used to it. Then, I usually take a shower, get ready and I eat breakfast while reading the newspaper. Finally, I take the bus to work. When I get home, around 7 pm, I try to relax a bit: I read a book or I watch TV. Before I go to bed I always take the mirror down and I turned it around so it faces the wall. I know it's a peculiar but it’s not because I’m afraid of monsters or spirits suddenly appearing. I'm just afraid of the way I might look in the dark when my features deform as they mix with obscurity” He listens carefully and writes words of analysis. I dare myself to confide in him. I’ll tell him everything. I’ll tell him about my mother, my dream and I’ll tell him about the murder. I’ll admit in the truth. I wonder what good that will get me. 
   I close my eyes. If I sleep what will I dream of this time? I imagine bits of light appearing in front of me, like a sad dream on a dark wall. My mind empties and fills up with black holes shaped like the eyes of my mother. Finally everything is mild. I feel safe and blissful. I picture myself going back to the burning flames within my yellow-colored room and I appreciate the silence and the peace at last.