My name is Sandy Hartch and for all I care, I’m guilty. So, very guilty. Though I’ve been able to travel half a globe away from the scene of my terrifying atrocity, I’m still haunted by mental snapshots from that day and the day after.

In this historic Chinese town where I try to hide from my past, every morning just like everyone else, I get up and go on my business, but somewhere inside my dark mind, I pray for what no other normal person would. I keep hoping that I get hit by a bus or get into some terrible accident that would take me into a long comma. A comma I would then come out from with a permanent amnesia. That has not happened and I still have my memory. My life’s meanest enemy.

I was born in a small Irish town, they call it Clonoulty, a town hard to find on a map. A year after I lost my mother, I dropped out of school. I grew dispassionate about everything. I also stopped seeing my friends. My father was deeply worried about me. He loved me so much –or so I was raised to believe. At my mother’s funeral, he told me his last promise to her on her sick bed was that he would do all in his power to protect and take good care of me. I trusted him to keep his words.

If he still lives, I suspect he would remember those exact words. He barely forgets things, and I took after him. What you are reading right now is my confession. It is the only way I have boldness to do it. I have visited shrinks after shrink; they all said the same thing. That I am imprisoned by a past I must shed. They all have urged me to say it to them, but I can’t. I can’t make my lips produce the words to confess my deeds or say his name ever again without feeling my heart being ripped apart. So what I decided to do was, write it all down on this long paper and drop it where someone would easily find it. If I may ask for your help, please read and drop it too where you know someone else will easily find it.

It was fourteen years ago I woke up to the most fearsome morning of my life. The morning after a night I wished would never end. I heard a soft knock on our front door, and then a loud one followed. I knew instantly it had to be the O’Neils. My father was the first to respond. I heard his dragging footsteps as he went to open the door. Then clicks of the door key, after which I rose from my bed to join them in our sitting room.

Mrs. O’Neil sat directly opposite me. I greeted her good morning as politely as ever. I can remember the shaky voice with which she responded. Her fingers trembled slightly, she clasped them but they trembled all the same. Her eyes were reddened and sunken. Not only had she not slept in the night, she must have cried all through it. It was easily noticeable, grief darkened her countenance. Grief blended with fear in varying proportions at different moments. Though she spoke like she held a smidgen of hope for the best, there was no hiding that she was subdued by an unbearable weight of fear for the worst.

“Jacob did not come home last night,” Mr. O’Neil said, he tried to sound calm as he said those words, but we knew better.

“What did you mean he did not come home?” my father seemed alarmed by the news, “like, he did not return and you haven’t seen him?”

Mrs. O’Neil shook her head, “We’ve asked all the neighbors and…” she was close to tears, her voice trailed off. Her husband placed his arm on her hunched back.

“We’re going from home to home to ask his friends, perhaps we can find who last saw him,” he said, facing me.

I did not know what to say. I managed to avoid any eye contact with my father.

“Is it usual for him to spend the night outdoors without informing you?” my father asked.

“No, never,” Mr. O’Neil said.

My father turned to me; I was next to him by his right, “Was he here yesterday?”

“He was here,” I said, “he came to check on me.”

“By what time was that?” Mr. O’Neil asked.

“Some minutes before two pm.”

“Did he stay long? When did he leave?”

“We spent about an hour together here in this room, he sat there,” I pointed shyly at where Mrs. O’Neil sat.

“When I was at the workshop?” my father asked me.

I nodded.

“Where did he go from here? Did he tell you?” Mrs. O’Neil asked.

“No, he did not say, but I thought that he was going straight home because he mentioned having a lot to do at home.”

“You did not see him off?” my father asked me, “you always do.”

“I was already having the stomach upset by the time he was leaving,” I said.

My father began to nod slowly, and then he turned to Mr. O’Neil, “Where else have you been?”

“We have only been to the Samson’s and the Buickol’s.”

“Hopefully, by the time you see more of his friends you might be able to get a good lead, or he’ll be home before you.”

“We pray so.”

“And you should not waste much time before you report to the police. The sooner they begin to assist, the best for us.”

“We will go and make a formal complain now,” Mr. O’Neil said then stood up, his wife joined him. “Thank you so much Mr. Hartch for your assistance.”

“It’s our collective worry,” my father said, then he put his arms around me, “be calm darling, be calm,” he said softly, “they will find him and nothing will happen to him.”

“Please do not let yourself be troubled, young miss,” Mrs.O’Neil said, “it will be alright, my dear.”

My father offered to go with them till they find him. They politely declined, but he insisted. He could see they needed a company badly.

They made a report to the police and that same day, two policemen came to question me. I told them exactly what I told his parents, but the thing is, it wasn’t the whole truth.

On the day before, it was in a sunny summer afternoon. Jacob came to visit me like had became his little afternoon ritual. Because I’d noticed my father wasn’t the boy’s biggest fan, I did not want him to notice Jacob was around. So, I took him into my bedroom. I’d grown so fond of him that it did not quickly occur to me it was the very first time ever I would have a non-relation opposite sex visitor inside my bedroom behind a shut door. When I think about those days now, I begin to wonder if we’d fallen in love so soon.

We met only six weeks ago at the community library. I used to visit the library quite often, not because I loved to read, but my father, who was worried I was turning myself into an insufferable recluse would endlessly encourage me to go where I can make new friends.

Jacob was one of those friends I made; in fact, he was the only one I kept beyond two weeks. He was three years older, I was only sixteen and we were expressly swept into that la-la land where teenage lovers love to dwell.

In those days, I always talk about love. I enjoyed the sound of it on my lips. I think I must have told him I loved him about a thousand times, or more. I thought I did love him, though now I can’t use the word anymore and do not know what in the world it means, but I think what we had was the same thing many other couples have and they call it love. You know, I never needed the company of anyone like I needed his.

I thought my father would be happy about my new happiness. I rediscovered the old cheerful me just after the first few days I spent with Jacob. Nonetheless, my father would have loved to think my mood improvement was largely due to his efforts.

To be fair to him, he did a lot to try to drive the grief of my mother’s loss out of me. He sold his truck seven months after my mother’s funeral just to pay for a vacation for the two of us to Dar-es-Salaam. To give you an idea of how uninterested I was with everything then, I did not bother to ask where in the world that was. All I knew was, we took a train to a shiny airport in Dublin then took a flight that landed us in a dusty airport. We spent two nights in a mosquito infested hotel and then reversed the route. From dusty airport back to shiny airport, to a train ride and back home.

Then Jacob came and changed everything. He was brilliantly humorous and carefree. To add to that, he was intelligent and hugely selfless, always willing to share and sacrifice. He was also good looking, boyishly pretty.

On three different occasions, we’ve hidden in a particular dark corner near my father’s auto workshop to kiss by moonlight time. So, as I led him into my room that day, I couldn’t deny within myself that I wasn’t anticipating something more physical. As a matter of fact, I was expecting that the moment I make us sit on my bed, he’d descend his beautiful self on me.

He had a different approach, he preferred to sit and talk, looking me in the eye…and sometimes down my chest. As was typical of him, he would at occasions say something funny and self-deprecatory. Then he would make a fool of himself…make faces…anything to keep me laughing.

Those moments, those pictures of his face when he smiled, when he laughed, when he did different hilarious things like stupid pouted lips or a crazy frowny face, even the sound he made when he giggled or laughed out loud, they’re all plastered to my head. Stamped unto the deepest part of whatever part of my brain is the custodian of my memories.

Then came the moment I’d been silently praying for. We now sat so close to each other. I could feel his breath on my skin, a breath that conveyed the tang of overcooked broccoli. It flooded my lungs whenever he did that wide mouthed laughter. It did not repel me in anyway. In fact, it made me there and then fall in love with broccoli.

Then our eyes locked. Time was frozen for our sake. Then our lips locked too.

The only thing I cannot remember anymore was how exactly one thing led to the other. Where my memory is now sharpest however is in the part where my bare back was now flat on my bed and my legs spread apart into the air like a chicken on the grill.

I was perspiring profusely, a little more than he was. I can remember we were making more noise than was respectable. We were moaning –no, he was moaning and I was yelling in ecstasy. The world was dead and only the two of us were alive. It was so at that moment, or so I assumed.

I can also remember feeling like I was about to explode and that my pelvis could fall apart anytime soon.

Then I heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps.

Gosh, my father. It must be him.

Jacob did not hear nothing, he was lost.

The first thing that came to my mind was, “Do I remember locking the door with the key?”

The footsteps were growing louder and louder so I was sure I wasn’t just imagining things.

No, I can’t remember locking the door with the key.

At this point, I wasn’t going to explode anymore. Definitely not that kind of explosion would I get.

Jacob too had slowed down, he actually stopped seconds later. He too just heard my father’s footstep.

I was just about to ask him if he locked the door before all this began.

No, he didn’t.

The door swung open.

My father stood by it, bleeding many strong emotions through his eyes. Shock mixed with unspeakable anger.

In the same breath, Jacob had gymnastically sprung off me and was quickly recovering different pieces of his clothing from various corners of my room. His boxer shorts from a louver of my window, his t-shirt from a blade of the slowly rolling fan and his pants from near my father’s leg by the door.

 As for me, I sat still on my bed, my hands crossed around to hide my breasts and my legs closed. I bowed my head in shame, my humiliation was boundless.

Then my father moved. He left the door ajar and stepped into the room. I raised my head to look at him. His shock had softened into shame and disgust. His steps were towards Jacob. He took his cloths from him and ordered him to sit next to me. At first, Jacob did just as he was commanded, sat by me but avoided eye contact with me.

As my father came closer and was about to say something, Jacob must have thought he can’t stand the humiliation that was to come. He quickly picked his cloths from the foot of my bed where my father dropped them. Then he made for the door, swiftly. He was not swift enough though. My father sped after him. Before he went through the door, my father’s hand had reached him and pushed him on the back forcefully.

He toppled over.

On his way to the ground, his forehead hit the metal knob of my door. His body tilted over and he landed on the ground with the back of his head.

I cringed as he landed. Something told me it wasn’t good at all. My father too, he reached to pull him up. Then we noticed something. His naked, lanky body was convulsing. It was a short convulsion and it stopped quickly. I and my father began to call him loudly. My father was shaking his body.

Then he felt his pulse.

He raised his head to stare at me. A gloomy look blanketed his fat face.

He shook his head. I screamed.

“Be quiet now,” he said to me in a low tone. He held his head in his hands.

“Let us take him to the hospital.”

“He is dead, Sandy. No one can bring him back.”

“How can he be dead? He just fell, he…”

“I don’t know, I just wanted to pull him back, I…I…”

“What have you done? What have you done to him?” I began to weep; I fell over the limp body. Sobbing.

“I’m trying to think, be quiet.”

“Let us call for help.”

“They will send me to jail forever,” he said ruefully.

“But you did not do anything.”

“No one will believe me.”

“So what do you want to do to him now?”

He stood up and pulled me away from the body. “I will take him and place him somewhere.” He lifted the body from the floor and unto his shoulder, “tidy up this place, I will be back soon.”

“Where are you taking him to?”

He looked me straight in the eyes, “It will be best for you if you do not know beyond this point.”

Jacob was placed on the missing persons’ list and there he is till this day.

This is the memory that kills me every night. It is set at auto-replay in my head. It dries my sleep, it kills my appetite, and it makes me endlessly miserable…because it is not just a memory. It is a cancer.

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