Page 10 of Teddy Bear

She couldn't explain to me the darkness, the complete interruption of the flow of light in his mind.

She couldn't explain to me why dad doesn't want to go for walks with me anymore, why he never has time, why it doesn't mean anything to him that I got an A or bravely overcame a terrible fever.

My mother, even if she wanted to, had no words for why his eyes are cloudy, why his eyes are glassy, and why his heart is somewhere far away, in a world where I am just a grain of sand, a microscopically invisible crumb whose existence is imperceptible, even insignificant.

She couldn't explain to me why dad comes home euphoric, why he jumps around the room and rejoices as if he's just saved all of humanity, only to stumble back into his old nothingness a few days later.

I didn't know which of his two states was worse, because even for his joy, we were only hostages, puppets who had to bow to him, to his happiness which was inviolable at the time, which we were not allowed to question.

Soon, my mother and I ceased to exist as autonomous beings, but only as shadows of my father, constantly caring not to cause further damage to his shattered mind with our actions.

At that time, our now severely fractured and damaged family, to the outside world, seemed and functioned as if it were perfect.

My mother and I lived practically alone, in our luxurious villa in the suburbs on a private road.

I say practically alone, because half the time dad was out of the house - chasing the next big project or business idea that collapsed faster than a tower of sand on the shore of the sea itself, and half the time, when he was with us, he suffered because of the darkness that chased him and undeniably caught him; he was a ghost in his own house, a living man with a soul long dead, and it was as if he had not been there. His presence was only a painful reminder of all that we lost due to his illness and refusal to receive treatment.

He lived in his own divided world, constantly struggling with the sun and rain that warmed and fell inside his head, and we were the trees that grew and adapted to him.

Although instead of support and security, he became my synonym for fear and restlessness, nevertheless, I did not give up on him.

For some reason, I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, if I studied hard enough, if I was patient hard enough, long enough, if I endured their arguments in complete silence, pretending I didn't exist in the deaf space of their yelling, if I didn't cause any trouble and if I was just good enough, maybe my dad would be able to love me again.

Except, of course, the problem was never me.

At fourteen, I was old enough and destroyed enough to begin to realize that it wasn't going to happen, but I still hoped that, at least now that I'm the best student in the whole generation, maybe my dad would give me his glowing attention and love, instead of a teddy bear, as a reward, because I really, really needed them.

That didn't happen.

Dad didn't even show up for the graduation ceremony.

I cried in the school hall while listening to my friends guess what was wrong with me. I was sick. I've had enough of them. I had enough of everything.

I was desperate, utterly helpless, hungry like an addict craving a fix, begging for so little, so long, humiliating and pushing myself beyond my every possible limit, begging for a crumb of my father's love.

I endured terrible teachers, insolent friends, rude boys; I endured my mother obsessed with her own unhappiness; I endured the cursed days and nights in our haunted house that looked more and more like a fucking asylum; I endured pressure, pain, insecurity that threatened to riddle my heart with leaden bullets.

I endured all this in silence, devoted only to studying; I worked endlessly hard to be the most diligent, the best student, desperately waiting for him to give me even a crumb.

But the illness was stronger than anything, and my dad couldn't give me even that much.

I decided that it was time to bury him inside my head and somehow forget about my father, considering that he, as I knew him and as I needed him, no longer existed.

I was quite ready to do that, and I needed to mark his death inside my frightened mind in a physical, metaphorical way. Killing him and burying him only in my imagination was not enough; I needed a real goodbye and the possibility to grieve for him, and possibly get over the painful loss of the man I loved more than anything in the world.

I dug up a small grave, actually not very small; I dug up a rather large grave. It was hard and time-consuming work, but work that I quite enjoyed in some morbid and bizarre way. I looked with pleasure at my fingers smeared with mud and the tiny clods of wet soil that were packed under my nails,

I chose a day when the soil was wet after the rain so that digging would be as easy as possible.

I absorbed the woody, simultaneously sweet and moist, slightly rotten smell of wet, black earth and passed it through my pale hands, almost fascinated. There was something incredibly peaceful and calming about the fact that I was about to send my father's memory to eternal rest.

When the grave was excavated, I brought a big, pink cardboard box. I bought it on purpose, the day before, in a bookstore in town. It was the largest, the most beautiful cardboard box, with glittering sides that reflected the sun's rays and created a rainbow glow. It was absolutely perfect.

I brought Teddy from my room and placed him inside.

His eyes were infinitely sad. For some reason, I couldn't bear to look at them, so I used a small knife to take out both of his eyes. Teddy was now blind, and I thought that was very good for him - that way he would never again have to see the face of horror and life in constant pain that I saw every day.

I straightened his red bow and kissed his brownish, protruding muzzle. For a moment I thought it was really wet, or it was just my tears, or the wet, graveyard dirt I was about to cover him with, because I could swear I hadn't been crying.