The get-through diary (part 1)
August, 28th 20XX
Thus it begins: a grim smile on a young face. I thought he was too young to be grim, but he was. Thinking about our story, now I recollect just a few images of his smile. They’re pieces of a puzzle, a thousand-piece one. I try to put them in the right order, catching a clear sight of his face, but I fail each time.
There’s only one thing that I remember, as well as I know my name is Vicky, and that’s a letter.
It’s the first letter of his name. A name I cannot recall at all.
Mr Martin, my psychologist and Loopy’s closest friend, says it’s quite normal, at least comprehensible, after such a shock.
I believe it’s curious after what happened last spring. I remember every detail of that day, all but his name and his face. A black voile covers J’s image in my mind and I must uncover it. Sometimes I feel like I’ll go crazy if I don’t.
It happened on March, the 23rd. It’s nearly September and I’m quite far from getting through it. I tried everything that could have helped me, even hypnosis, and anything was successful. The dark spot on his face is still there. Mrs Boils, who hypnotized me, told it was her first time not being of any help to a paying patient. She was somehow disappointed. Not as much as me, of course. She was extremely – well, I’ve said fucking while going out of her office – expensive.
I don’t know why but I’ve got the idea that J would have found my waste of money with Mrs Boils very – he would have said fucking – hilarious. Perhaps my bad-mouth is a consequence of J’s influence. Curious, I remember nothing of him and I feel he had a deep influence on my behaviour.
Loopy always says I talked about him as he was a god descended on Earth to take me to heaven. Handsome like a Greek god, tall, reddish-brown haired, with two – of course they were two – dark brown eyes. She has never seen him, this is my description of J, so I do not know if I can trust her.
Come back to work after three months of rest feels tiring, but I’m happy. Take care of one-year old babies it’s quite distracting, though. At least, I don’t think of J, nor of his smile, as often as I would have done hanging about in my apartment all day with nothing to do.
I wonder, sometimes without any intention of asking myself unnecessary and hurtful things, how and when I’ve met J for the first time. As a crèche teacher I’ve got not so much free time after work – it’s always half past six when I come back home and I’m usually tired, very tired – and I can’t figure an occasion on which I’ve met him. My coworkers told me any child’s father name begins with J. I was glad to hear it. Going out with a father is complicated. Ex-wives and children always crying for getting attention is something I strongly try to avoid. I love babies, but just few hours per day.
During my last appointment Mr Martin suggested me to write a sort of diary. A get-through diary, he called it, a sort of path to recollect my lost memories. Maybe J’s name, face and personality will come out while writing. I hope so. And I fear it too.
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