Chaos By Bissme S
The first time I saw him was at the cafe that my parents run. It was raining like cats and dog. He was cold, hungry and was looking some warm food to eat. He was a photographer from the big city. He wanted to shoot our small beautiful village. He wanted to feature these photos in some travel magazine.
“Can I find a hotel here?” he asked.
There was no hotel in our village. Out of kindness, my parents offered our guest room to the stranger. But my parents soon learned a bitter lesson that kindness is not always rewarded with kindness.
Four days later, the stranger had disappeared into the air. The stranger did not leave our house, alone. The stranger had abducted me. My mother screamed her head off when she learned what had taken place. The doctor had given her a sedative to calm her. My mother spent her days in bed, feeling dizzy and depressed. My father had a high hopes my tragedy would have a happy ending - I would be found and he would be hugging me.
But my father had forgotten that sometimes God loves sad endings. My kidnapper was nowhere to be found and I was no longer breathing. The police found my body, brutally raped and badly burned.
I was only thirteen when my life ended tragically. I have become a ghost, wondering in the house that I grew up in and hanging around my parents who love me with all their hearts.
My parents could not see me. My parents could not hear me. But I could see their agony. I could hear their cries of miseries. I could feel their unspoken sadness.
“It is a norm for a child to bury his parents,” my mother said.
“But when the situation is reversed – when parents have to bury their child – the pain can be unbearable.”
My mother had lost faith in God. My mother had stopped going to church. Our regular priest, Father Danny Fratine, visited our home. He wanted to convince my mother to return to church.
“I cannot pray to a God who had taken away my only child,” my mother shouted.
“There is no place for God in my heart any more. I wish God will be burned in hell.”
My mother took the broom and literarily chased away Father Danny Fratine from our house.
“God is my enemy,” my mother shouted
“If you love God, then you are my enemy, too. And my enemies are not welcome in my house. ”
My mother had become a bitter old woman who constantly cursed God and anyone who love God. My father was in far worse condition than my mother.
“The police had made a mistake” my father said.
“The dead body they found is not my daughter. They just want to close the case as soon as possible. They don’t care about justice.
“I have done my research. Most paedophiles are not killers. He raped my daughter and most probably, sold her to some brothels. He is not that heartless to kill my sweet Sophia.”
One morning, my mother and I could not find my father anywhere in the house. There was a letter from him waiting for my mother on our dinner table. My father had gone to the big city to find me, the daughter he loved and adored.
“I will only come back after I find our daughter,” my father wrote.
Nine months passed. There was no sign of my father. I had lost any hope that I would see my father, again. Then, one evening, my father was in my living room.
“I am so glad you have returned home,” my mother said while hugging my dad.
I thought my father would have realized that his idea of finding me in some brothel home was a crazy one and would finally accept the bitter truth that I was no longer alive. But I was wrong.
“I found Sophia,” my father said.
“Our daughter is not dead.”
I was shocked listening to what my father had uttered. There was no way I could be alive.
“I went from one brothel home to another to find my daughter,” my father said.
“I could not find her. I felt helpless. I felt defeated. I wanted to kill myself. But killing yourself is not easy. I was sitting on the road, crying my heart out. Then, God had shown me his mercy. God had shown me his greatness. I saw my daughter on the opposite road, begging. I rushed towards her. I hugged her. I whispered in her ears: I will not let you go.”
Looking at my mother’s expression, my father said: “I know you don’t believe me. Let me prove to you that our daughter Sophia is alive.”
My father called out my name. A girl appeared in front of my mother. She looked like me. She dressed like me. But she was not me. My mother slowly walked towards her. My mother hugged her. There were tears in my mother’s eyes
“Your father is hero,” she said to the girl.
“Your father has found you. My daughter is alive... My daughter is alive....”
The girl was willing to adopt my name. The girl was willing to wear the clothes I wore. The girl was willing to tie her hair just like my hair. The girl was playing me. The girl did not care that she did not have an identity of her own.
I suspected that her life on street was a hell. In my house, the girl has food to eat, clothes to wear, a bed to sleep in and the love of my parents. My house was like a heaven for her. And most people always choose heaven over hell.
My mother wants to embrace God, again. My mother wanted redemption for saying unkind things about God.
“God has given my daughter back to me,” my mother said.
“God has been kind to me. I have a lot to be grateful for.”
When Sunday came, my mother and my father proudly entered the church with their new daughter. I was sure the villagers will not accept their reality... I was sure the villagers will bluntly tell my parents that that girl was not me... I was sure the villagers will force bitter truth- that I was no longer alive - down their throats.
But I was wrong. Just like parents, the entire village had gone insane.
They wanted me to see what they see. They wanted me to hear what they hear. They wanted to smell what they wanted to smell. They wanted me to believe what they believe. They hugged my parents. They hugged the girl that supposed to me.
Watching my parents and the people in my village jumping with joy was like watching a bandwagon of madness. I cannot make sense of the chaos that surrounded me.
I thought our church priest Father Danny Fratine will bring calm to the chaos that was taking place in my village...I thought Father Danny Frantine will bring sanity to the madness that had erupted in our village. But he did not. Instead, he joined the bandwagon of madness.
In his mass, the good old Father said: “God works in the most mysterious way. God had brought back Sophia to us. What God have done here is a miracle and we should always be grateful to God for this miracle.”
Two years passed. Initially I was furious that my parents and the people in my village had easily replaced me with a girl that my father found roaming in the streets. I did not want to be replaced. I did not want my identity to be taken away. I wanted them to mourn for me. I wanted them to remember me, forever.
But, now, I am no longer furious. I have learned to rationalize their madness. I have learned to rationalize the chaos that surrounded my life. I am looking at my parents and the people in my village with the eyes of sadness than with the eyes of anger.
They came from a village where nothing bad really happen. They are simple folks. They are not trained to handle my kind of tragedy. My tragedy had broken them. My tragedy had pushed them into the world of madness.
They were tired of living in sadness. They wanted happiness. They wanted hope. They wanted me to be alive. They wanted my tragedy to have a happy ending. Madness is necessary when you cannot handle the truth.