I almost pushed you to end your life tonight, simply because I didn’t feel well. What kind of cruelty is that? If my hands had been the ones that gently pressed the knife against your chest, you would have accepted it. You asked me if I would end your life for you, if I could hold your lifeless body afterwards. With every word tonight, I can’t help but feel immersed in a spiral. I feel violent and yet I can’t stop crying. I’m upset that you allow me to treat you like this. I’m exactly like my father, I feel it, I feel it deep inside me, and I want you to hate me. I want hatred to fill your heart towards me. When I was fifteen, my father often locked me in the closet. I particularly remember one night: he was drunk and thought I had taken something that belonged to him. In a fit of rage, he threw the bottle of vodka on my head with such force that it broke on me. Almost immediately, he heard a knock on the front door and pushed me into the closet in a panic. My face was dripping with blood, my hands were soaked and I didn’t even understand where all this blood came from. All I knew was that my body hurt and that, whatever I did, I could not calm the terror that inhabited me. I remember the moment he reopened the door. It was so sudden that my head immediately rose to see if he was looking at me. I tried to press myself against the wall rather than move forward, but he took me out by grabbing me by the arm, then he twisted my two arms behind my back. One of his friends was there too. He told my father not to hold me like that and to look at how terrified I looked. He gently ran his hand through my hair, then asked him to let me go. The man slightly lifted my hair away from my face, but it froze when his fingers touched my ears. Did he realise that my ears were pierced? He asked my father if he wanted me to end up like an animal, and that was the kind of thing he really should have disciplined me for. His answer was that I was already an animal. I remember how his friend gently moved me away from him, and I tore his face with my nails before throwing myself towards the door. I remember being terrified. I just kept running. I was so afraid that he would catch up with me after running away like that. I knew that if he caught me, he would really end my life. It was the first time in my life that I entered a church. In front of me were two closed glass doors that separated the entrance hall from the nave. There were rows and rows of benches, all occupied by people. I didn’t know what I could have looked like at that time, but I knew I didn’t look good. I could still feel the blood on my face. I couldn’t go through those glass doors. There were other doors that started from the hall. I pushed at one of those doors instead, and fell on a staircase. After taking one last look at the singing congregation, I closed the door behind me and slowly climbed the steps. The staircase did not lead to an attic. It didn’t even lead to the bell tower. Instead, I found myself in an unused choir stand that was now used as a storage room. Several old pieces of furniture were scattered on the floor. The stand opened on a bird’s eye view of the rest of the church, with a wooden railing at the front. I found a perfect place between a grand piano covered with a cover and the railing, where I could slip. I did it, then I wrapped my arms around my knees. I turned around and looked at the congregation through the railing. The song ended and the pastor began to speak. I remember observing the grey haired man with a vague interest. It was so foreign to me at the time that some people were able to believe in a God
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