Hopscotch

Still mulling over memories of a not too distant past I approach the destination, the West Square.

Famous for its eccentric urbanism Jasmin is a true uniqueness among nations. If Jasmin were a person it would be a femme fatale. Imposing, seductive, manipulative, full of mysteries and secrets with her plethoric and curvy body in a dress that was as grandiose as the mistress. So it would be Jasmin, single. Even walled, her splendour shines on the surroundings, which are constituted by 4 squares in front of the 4 gates. The West Square is characterized by an atmosphere similar to mine, more dead than alive, although I do not want to believe in comparison, at least not in the literal sense. With more basilicas than religious capitals, the West Square is a reserved place for having the majority of the burials realized there and the collection of the evictions of the human body coming from the city.

In its center is seen, like an obelisk, the sculpture of three women aligned; The first a child of about 8 years with a smile on her face and holding a white rose; The second a woman of simple beauty in her best performance with an azalea tiara on her head and the third lady who is made of chrysanthemums, and besides the sculpture the Hill of Consolation.

Riding unceasingly up the tortuous slope, I watched the stories of those who had not been overwhelmed by the ferocious attack of the undergrowth. Marble, wood and rock made up more tales than I wanted. The weeping of widows and the singing of birds resonated, strangely, harmoniously.

"You know, mother, I still wonder who she is, the girl of my dreams. Today I dreamed of her again, I saw her seated on the throne and when I blinked it was I who was sitting and with her bloody body in my arms. I cannot stand these dreams anymore, that's not what I want. I cannot control them. I've failed with you once, and I don't want to do it again. Tell me. Speak. What does it want from me? What do you know you didn't tell me? Say it!" I shouted with all my might. There was no answer.

Before the stone, I ventured the emotions of a jovially disturbed mind. Love. Hate. Confusion. Indifference. Those who have already succumbed don't understand the drama of those who outlast. At the end of a show without attendance, I took the orphanage as my destiny.

Halfway through the stone streets, I wandered between the mansions and tenements of Jasmin. The arches and windows made faces with their pompous plaster adornments. Its two and three-story structures loomed its presence, but they did not compare to the palpable desolation of the College of St. George for Children in Need, aka hell, I mean orphanage.

The institution was surrounded by a sprawling citadel of gardens, fountains, muddy ponds, courtyards and shadowy pinewoods. Here and there gloomy buildings housed swimming pools enveloped in a ghostly vapour, eerily silent gyms and dreary chapels where images of long-fingered angels grinned in the flickering candlelight. The main building was four storeys high, not counting the two basements and an attic set apart as an enclosed residence for the few ageing women who still worked as teachers. The boarders' rooms were located along the cavernous corridors of the fourth floor. These endless galleries lay in perpetual darkness, always shrouded in a spectral aura.

On arrival, I was promptly confronted by my absence during the period when dinner is served. There were not many codes we had to follow, they were limited to three words that were emptier than my pocket in most part of the time. Duty, Discipline and Sincerity. However, these few established were applied in a zero tolerance regime by the prosecutor, judge and executor called Dean. I cannot remember her real name or her features, but I still have shudders when I reminisce her voice. The mind forgets the body doesn't. I gave evasive answers, disclosed half-truths, told half-lies. In short, I did the best I could, not that this was too much since I was only 12 years old. But even so, I was found guilty of civil disobedience and lack of discipline, and sentenced to listen to a sermon on responsibilities and go into exile from my room and spend another night without eating.

I retired to my quarters and fell into bed. My bedroom contains a small bed, neatly made, two straight-backed chairs, a washstand, a bureau without any mirror, and a small table. There were many drapery and curtains at the windows, no paintings on the wall. All day the sun had been pouring down the roof, and the little room was like an oven for heat. As there were no screens, the windows had not been raised. A big fly was buzzing angrily at one of them now, up and down, like Icarus, trying to get out.

I tried to imagine the choice of Apprentice that would take place the next day and how I would boast before Lisandra, but even the most mundane thoughts escaped me. I listened, coming from the corridors and rooms next to each other, noises of rapid and uneven footsteps. The children of the orphanage were playing hopscotch.

I have had no more than three certainties in my life and they can be summarized very simply and succinctly. First, you have been or will be loved, never said by whom or for what. Second, you will die, just wish to be able to choose the mode; and the third, well ...

On that fateful day, lying in my beautiful bed, I discovered the third and carried it like a fate in my life. You will hate something. But a hatred so deep and ardent that even in the northern winter you, without clothes, will feel warmed. And at that moment, I was on fire.

"I hate hopscotch," I murmured between hunger and sleep.