Thirty years stumbling and drifting. Three decades of somnambulism. Step by dreamy step trying to avoid walking into the nightmare. Thirty years since I walked down those steps and found her. I have pushed aside, reshaped, repurposed and regurgitated those memories, the ones I barely saw through the fog in my long sleep.
Am I awake now? Would I know? At least I know I have been sleeping, and the bruises from bumping into walls, and other people, are beginning to show. I can see their bruises too. If I am still sleeping, how do I see?
Yes, I think the dream has ended, but the nightmare still plays in my eyes. The knife in her hand, the one you held to her throat. Me knowing what no thirteen year old ought to. I cannot escape it, but I no longer want to. I forgive myself now.
I forgive myself for not forgiving you. No, I applaud myself for it because you deserve not an inch of it. Do what you will, what you must, but do not expect a tear of sympathy from me. You have plenty of your own: crocodile tears in crimson dripping from your wrists and I will not play anymore. I will watch where I am going, mindful of where I have been, dreaming and screaming and walking and hoping.