Just trying IV.

It was like I have been in front of that door already. I just could not remember exactly, but I felt the same way once in a similar situation. Then a flash of memory came to my mind. I got those scenes back from the graves in my brain. They were lying there for a long time, covered with all my will to forget them forever, but know they’ve returned, alive, clearly and stronger.

I was doing very well, even for a boy raised in an orphanage. I had my problems since my parents left me to get to the paradise – that beautiful place Ms Korina said the soul of the dead men went to. Ms korina was my best friend at the orphanage. She was a tiny woman, whose the goodness made everyone in that house feels that they have a mother. Her short and blond hair was just the same of a beautiful singer that we used to see in rare moments that we watched that old TV without remote control. Her hair shone like Madonna’s. Every evening, at about six pm, she called us to the main room to sit and listen to a story. She used to tell us various stories, about various themes, even exotics, even common. After the story she left us with another woman, which took care of us in the night. I never like the other woman, and neither remember her name. One day, at story hour, Ms Korina’s voice was very low, almost a whisper, to tell us a story about a woman who lost her husband by a gun. For more than once, she had to stop telling the narrative to dry the tears that came to her occasionally. I didn’t remember the entire tale, but I have exactly engraved in my cells the part that she told difficultly: “and then the woman, after shout her husband’s name once again and getting no response, walked up the stairs towards their room. The door was partly open, and a yellow light was coming from inside. She felt fear and thought about bad things, but call again for her husband. Again no replies. She entered the bedroom and all she saw was the dead body of her husband lying on the bed, with a pool of blood on the white sheet.”

Now I am sure that she was getting crazy, what a story to tell the kids! I was sad about the woman of the story, because her story was similar to mine. I had lost my parents suddenly, too, and I thought Ms Korina have had the same lost because of her tears. I just did not understand that time why she told us: “You go to bed and sleep. Tomorrow no one calls me Ms Korina again. You call me just Lia.”

It was hard to me to call her with that strange name, but I could, as she was always replying us more sadly and silent. One day, she said that she was going to live with us, and I became too happy with that. She smiled quietly when I told her about that and then I saw that she was becoming older, with some white hair growing around her ears.

She was living with us about a week when, one night, I decided to visit her in her bedroom to beg for a tale. Quietly, I walked from my bed in the first floor, to the door of her bedroom, which was upstairs. When I got in front of the door partly open with yellow light coming from inside, I remembered fast of the story that she told us. I was afraid to step inside, but I did. All I found was her dead body lying on the bed, with a pool of blood on the sheets, coming from her neck. Her left hand was still holding a long knife.

To be continued.