A path of flowers

ECHOES

The voice at night has always been a mystery to me. It's a recent phenomenon, I'm certain of it; my parents echo this sentiment. I'm not delusional, nor do I suffer from schizophrenia. It's a singular voice, repeating endlessly, yet it harbors no malice.

Friendships, they say, are eternal, surviving years, even decades. We cherish the reunions, but do we recall only the joy, or the sorrows and tears as well? Memories, it's believed, can transcend lifetimes, etching themselves into our hearts. Wounds, some argue, compel us to dream, to feel, to lose, and to forget.

This voice embodies all these notions. It's been a constant presence, more than a mere whisper, guiding me through my wildest escapades. Yet, it remains intangible—I cannot ascribe it a form or a face. Perhaps it belonged to a dear friend, or my brother. The reason it calls me 'little bunny' eludes me, as does the message it delivers at twilight: —You are not alone, little bunny. Even the most fearsome creature in the dark forest merely needs a sliver of light to reveal its kindness.— But in the sterile silence of the Ministry of Prudence, those words fail to penetrate the oppressive stillness.

Silence is a dreadful companion. It confronts me with my reflection: hair of varying lengths, eyes once blue, now a pale shade. A black bandana conceals a scar on my left wrist—a mark of a destiny diverted. It transports me back to a stormy night, feet submerged, eyes brimming with tears, and a rusty knife that offered an escape from torment.

My mother spoke of hell's sulfuric stench, but to me, it smells of vanilla—a stale, cheap fragrance from a blue bottle, forever beside an untouched razor. Incense disquiets me, and the scent of rice pudding or vanilla flan sends shivers down my spine.

These aromas resurrect fragments of the past: a smile framed by graying hair, a kiss from a scruffy beard, the glow of yellow lights over a reindeer-adorned table. They also revive unsettling memories: an oppressive warmth, a breathless tightness, a violation. Yet, the voice that accompanies me, that offers solace, remains elusive.

A lone rabbit scurries across the field in my view.

With each passing day, my companionship shifts—sometimes trivial, sometimes consoling. A sister of prudence, her blonde curls and gray tunic a stark contrast to the vibrant meadow of my dreams, where I pursue the rabbit. I long to confess that I'm merely chasing my own shadow, forever out of reach. But silence prevails, perhaps out of fear of rejection or a belief that I'm unworthy of being heard.

—No, little bunny, you deserve to be heard,— the voice reassures me, not to soothe or to erase, but to empower me. In that moment, I grasp my destiny with a scarred hand, halting the advance of the crystal needle, its shards held firmly between my fingers.

—To master the hunt, you must wield every tool at your disposal, my little bunny,— the voice would say. —Only then will the fish swim into your net.— These lessons of survival, taught by a faceless figure who fondly called me 'little bunny', now resonate with clarity, offering a chance to end it all.

The nursery, a euphemism for solitary confinement, instills dread in all but me. It's my sanctuary, the one place he cannot reach—or so I believed. When the white coat looms near, I'm enveloped by a warm embrace, a stark contrast to the sorrow and sadness that usually accompany it. Is it my conscience seeking solace, or is the voice truly with me, manifesting itself each time I catch a glimpse of that unkempt beard and black leather gloves? —Undress,— he commands, his voice a chilling monotone, while I silently affirm: —You are no mere subject; you are a princess, born powerful and resilient. He is not your superior. You are a beast, not his captive.—

Yet, the haunting memories resurface, the wounds reopen, and I am once again that vulnerable, quivering, humiliated child. Tears flow, surrender beckons, and laughter is but a distant echo, a defense against the fall.