Once again, the story starts with a boy, Elias. He is here, in this village, after so many years— so many years. What was the age when he left this village? Yeah, 12. Now he is 27.
Fifteen years... fifteen years have passed, yet he feels nothing new. It's 6:30 pm. Everything is the same: the people in the village, the roads, that forest... he still feels goosebumps when seeing that horrible forest. He could feel some of the villagers watching that forest, and a hint of pain was clearly visible in their lives.
People said it was difficult to read their eyes because they became empty, but I always believed it was difficult to read their eyes because there were too many things to see, to feel, to tell, to ask, to listen, to speak, to digest, to understand, to clarify, to confirm, to reveal, to hide... there are no words for the explanation, but infinite feelings to justify. Those old men and women aged while finding the truth. The wrinkles, the white hairs, the scars on their faces, the permanent bruises on their hands each and every detail on them had another story. They were either the listener or the talker who had no one to talk to or listen to.
Elias was just looking at each scar, every bruise, every experience, every wrinkle that held another story. They were hopeless because they had no one. They lost their lives their wives, sons, mothers, fathers, daughters, brothers, sisters, grandfathers, grandmothers, grandsons, granddaughters, husbands. He was just looking at them. He knew he was one of them. That night... that night changed everything. He wished he never met that girl. He wished he had listened to his mother. He wished he had rejected the bet from his friends. He wished..
"You are here?" someone asked him that question.
"Who are you?" he asked, full of confusion.
It was a little girl, hardly nine years old.
"I have heard about you. They all know about you," she said, pointing towards the old men and women. She continued,
"They always talk about how you survived, how drenched in
blood you were, how you saved yourself. You know, every child, every woman, every older man or woman tells your life as a tale that has a moral: never give up. They always tell your story as if it is something to be proud of. They always tell us to not give up, to face danger, to risk our lives. Your story sure is a tale, but the way they tell it, like you are God's favorite, like you always behaved well in your life, ate your vegetables, and didn't argue. I thought it was fake. But now, look at me talking with you when no one else knows you are here."
He was looking at her, shocked, then gave her a warm smile.
"You know, if I had a chance to go back, I would never do the same. It was a choice. It was the only option. I survived because of luck, because of God, not because I'm brave or something. If I tell you honestly, then I'm a coward..." He stopped.
But why? Was he now insecure about his past? Was he regretting surviving? Did she make him uncomfortable? The answer was none. Then what was it that made him stop?
"Is he... is he scared? Or does he hate me now for reminding him of his past? No, that can't happen. He was already seeing things. He remembered everything... what happened to him?" she thought. But then he suddenly spoke.
"Do you want to know my side of the story?"
She was happy, smiling. The wide, cute smile on her face reached her eyes. She was excited
—she was the first one to be excited to hear his story and the first one to hear his side of the story. But suddenly, her smile dropped when she noticed his sad face.
Upon seeing this, he chuckled and said,
"Don't worry. I'm not sad, and you are not making
me sad. I will tell you the story."
He lightly smiled. She didn't notice, and her smile returned, even wider than before, almost closing her eyes.
"So, what happened was... it was almost 15 years ago when I was 12."
She interrupted, "It was 15 years ago...?"
He nodded.
"And you remember everything?"
He nodded again and said, "Each and every single detail. Now, if you allow me to continue...
She realized and lowered her head in embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry." I He lightly smiled. His smile was almost invisible. Only if she hadn't lowered her head, she would have noticed it. Then he continued.
"It was around 6:30 in the evening. I was playing with my friends. We were playing kho-kho-you probably haven't heard of it. Those who played this game died. We were all laughing, playing, living our lives when someone suddenly said she saw someone in that forest. It was Rina who said it. I still remember her gummy smile when she said that, but it disappeared when Deare said it must be a ghost. He loved to scare everyone. Then he bet me that whoever goes into that forest and comes out alive will win and get his pen.
His most favorite thing among us was that pen. His older brother got it for him from the U.S.
It was very beautiful. It had a feather on top, a sharp tip, smooth writing. I always wanted that Pen.
It was storming heavily that day. The thunder was loud. I was scared of it, and she knew that.
She was shouting. I thought she was shouting my name, asking me to come back, but she said, 'Don't stay outside too late. Come home quickly, okay?' She smiled, her warm smile.
The warm lights falling on her... she was an angel. Do you know why she said that? Because she knew I needed time. This made me angrier. How could she predict my every move, read my every thought, know what I needed at that moment?
I ran into that forest. And do you know what I said when I was running? 'If you can't give me that pen, then I will win this bet and get that pen.'"
He sighed. "I wish I could stop myself from doing that. I was running and running... until the rain stopped, and I stopped crying.
Then I suddenly realized I was lost. I was again feeling like crying. On the other hand, my mom began to worry when she could not find me. She started banging on people's doors, asking if I was there". He started crying, his voice not coming out of his mouth, yet he was trying to speak. His pain, his secrets things he had held for 15 years-were being expressed
Then he pointed towards an old man and said, "My mother banged on his door. He was the minister at that time, but that bastard didn't even open the door. He was watching all of that from his room's window." He started sobbing.
Then she suddenly spoke, crying, "That's my dad."
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