I let out an exhausting sigh, an invisible weight that spread like a sticky spiderweb from the tips of my numb fingers to the roots of my hair, tightening my scalp. My bones still ached with a dull and persistent pain, a physical and inescapable reminder of the endless tasks of the day, a silent penance imposed by my family's iron will. My mind remained trapped in a forced repetition of discordant melodies, the involuntary soundtrack of a life I had never chosen, a symphony of oppression that intrusively mixed with the persistent echo of haughty orders and silences laden with unspoken reproach. Not even in the relative solitude of my room did I find true refuge, a space that in theory should be mine, a personal sanctuary, but that constantly felt invaded by invisible shadows, by the oppressive presence of their expectations and silent judgments.
The city, Paris, with its distant beauty and flickering lights, seemed to mock my confinement, displaying a freedom that was denied to me.
Already bathed in the warm water that failed to relax the tension in my muscles, my still-damp hair gathered in a loose braid and dressed in my silk pajamas, a soft fabric that paradoxically felt like a second skin imprisoning me, I approached the window. The vast Parisian landscape stretched before me, a sea of golden and white lights that shone with a distant and cold beauty, a dazzling illusion of freedom that contrasted painfully with my own confinement, with the invisible walls that kept me captive in this gilded cage.
But not even the majesty of the city, the promise of life and movement that emanated from its illuminated streets, managed to dispel the darkness that had settled inside me, a persistent shadow that felt more tangible and real than any flickering light in the distance. I felt like a stranger in my own life, a silent shadow that wandered aimlessly in a world that no longer belonged to me, a world where smiles were carefully crafted masks and words, often spoken sweetly, could transform into sharp knives at the slightest carelessness.
I moved away from the window, averting my gaze from the city's unfulfilled promise, and sat on the edge of the bed, the leather-bound diary in my hands. It was the hour when reality blurred and dreamlike fragments began to emerge from the depths of my memory.
It was time to record my dreams, those scraps of reality that stubbornly refused to fade completely, those unsettling echoes of the past that resonated in the stillness of the night with a strange and often disturbing clarity. I remembered one in particular, a vivid and persistent dream that had left me with a palpable sense of unease and a cold disquiet, a dark premonition that ominously felt like a silent curse. I think everything intensified from the dream I had my first night here, in this alien room, that terrifying sensation of falling into a bottomless abyss, a perfect and chilling metaphor for my current life, for the downward spiral in which I was trapped.
A sudden chill ran down my spine, raising the small hairs on my arms, as if an invisible presence watched me from the dancing shadows of the room, a chilling feeling that I was not completely alone in this space I thought was mine. I took the fountain pen with a slightly trembling hand, the fine silver nib shining in the dim light, ready to face the ghosts that were beginning to stir in the dark corners of my mind, the unspoken secrets and uncomfortable truths that were hidden in the darkness of my memories and my presentiments.
Diary Entry: August 14th
The first dream I had.
I remember Mom's voice, harsh and demanding, echoing in the oppressive silence of the night: "Go to sleep, child!" But how could I fall asleep when the nightmare loomed over me like a hungry vulture, when I felt an invisible presence scrutinizing me from the darkness?
That night, the feeling was different, more piercing, more palpable. I felt a strange presence dancing in the confines of the room, a cold and persistent gaze that followed me from the dark corners where shadows played at deforming reality, a chilling certainty that something spectral watched me from the jaws of darkness. I close my eyes tightly, desperately trying to escape that paralyzing sensation, but visceral terror forces me to open them again, my eyelids obeying a primal fear, unable to let the darkness consume me completely, to drag me into an unfathomable abyss from which I could never emerge. I clearly remember the texture of that dream, the coldness that chilled my bones, and what inevitably happened afterward, a somber echo that would resonate throughout my life.
Little Josephine, a girl of barely seven years with big, frightened eyes, wandered lost through the endless corridors of an immense hospital, a cold and aseptic labyrinth of endless hallways and silent rooms. She followed a beautiful woman, with warm brown skin and jet-black hair that fell in waves over her shoulders, my Aunt Mariela, whose melodious laughter used to fill family gatherings with joy. But no one seemed to see me, no one reacted to my childish presence, as if I were a silent specter gliding through reality. The woman took her hand and led her into a strange room full of blinking machines, a cold and metallic place where the faint beeping of the monitors seemed to mark the uncertain rhythm between life and death.
Suddenly, the dreamlike scenario changed abruptly, as if an invisible hand had changed the channel on an old television. I found myself in my paternal grandmother's house, a place full of somber faces and silences laden with pain, surrounded by people dressed in strict black, their bodies shaken by inconsolable sobs. In the center of the room, a dark brown wooden coffin, surrounded by wreaths of withered flowers and flickering candles, presided over by a framed photograph of the brown-skinned woman, my Aunt Mariela, her radiant smile now frozen in time.
I approached the coffin with a mixture of childish curiosity and a cold fear that paralyzed my feet. The woman lay there, dressed in an immaculate white shroud, as if she were immersed in a deep sleep, but her eyes, usually full of life and warmth, were closed forever, sealed by eternity. A dark and elongated shadow slid towards me from a corner, an amorphous and menacing figure that seemed to emanate from the darkness itself, its voice barely an icy whisper that resonated directly in my mind: "Tell them to say goodbye. She will die soon," a chilling sentence that froze the blood in my veins.
I woke up startled, with hot tears slipping down my cheeks, my heart beating with a runaway fury, banging painfully against my ribs. I couldn't understand the dark meaning of that vivid dream, but the presence of the shadow, its ominous whisper, terrified me to the core, a ghostly presence that haunted me even when I opened my eyes to the pale light of dawn. I tried to calm my agitated breathing, seeking refuge in the familiarity of my toys until the first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, seeking comfort in the promise of light.
Two hours later, with the memory of the dream still fresh and terrifying, I ran to tell Mom, hoping to find in her arms the comfort that my small, frightened heart longed for. I described every chilling detail, every dreamlike image, every word whispered by the shadow, but she ignored me with glacial coldness, shouting at me to get dressed quickly for school, as if my childish fear had no importance whatsoever, as if my nightmares were mere inventions of a childish mind.
Days later, the telephone rang in the house with a somber premonition. Dad answered, his face growing paler, his voice breaking as he uttered the words that would change my life forever. Aunt Mariela had died suddenly, and the terrifying dream had come true, a dark premonition that I had ignored with the innocence of childhood. Mom wept inconsolably by the coffin, her body shaken by spasms of grief, and I, trembling with fear and confusion, dared to tell her that I had dreamed it, that I had seen it in my nightmares. But she reacted with fury, slapping me with her trembling hand and locking me in my dark room, flatly refusing to believe my childish words, labeling me a spoiled girl with an overactive imagination.
I felt profoundly alone, misunderstood, and abandoned in an adult world I couldn't understand. Why that chilling dream? Why my aunt's sudden death? Why my mother's cruel indifference to my genuine fear? Amid the silent weeping and overwhelming confusion, I finally fell asleep, seeking ephemeral refuge in unconsciousness, fleeing from a reality that was too painful.
The image of my Aunt Mariela, pale and still in the coffin, her lips sealed forever, still torments my sleepless nights, a ghostly presence that stubbornly refuses to be forgotten by my childhood memory. What did that dream want to tell me? What dark secrets did her sad eyes hide, secrets that now, years later, still haunt me in the stillness of the night? I felt a chill run down my spine, as if an invisible presence watched me from the dancing shadows of the room, a persistent feeling that I was not completely alone in this space I thought was mine.
Tears still dampened the diary page, blurring the words written in blue ink, as if trying to erase the painful burden of the past, the childish guilt that still consumed me silently, an invisible weight that grew heavier with each vivid memory. Could I have done something? Could I have prevented Aunt Mariela's premature death if someone had listened to my frightened words? I don't know. I only know that those dark dreams still terrify me in the stillness of the night, haunt me like persistent shadows, and I still live with the latent fear of what my dreams may portend in the future, of the dark secrets they still hide in their cryptic images, of the unfathomable darkness I sense approaching.
This was what my aunt, in some inexplicable way, wanted me to remember, this first terrifying dream that I had carefully blocked from my memory for so many years. An unsettling message from the past that resonated with a chilling force in my present, a silent warning that I felt I could no longer ignore.
I closed the diary with a shaky sigh, feeling the cold weight of uncertainty settling in my chest, an invisible burden that grew heavier with each written word, with each unearthed memory. Why these premonitory dreams? Why were they returning now, when my own life felt increasingly like a waking nightmare? The ominous feeling that something terrible was coming intensified, a shadow lengthening in the darkness, threatening to consume me completely.
I curled up under the soft blankets, the leather-bound diary pressed against my chest as if it were a fragile shield against the darkness I felt enveloping me.
Perhaps, if I wrote enough, if I poured every memory, every fear onto these silent pages, I could find the elusive answers, unravel the dark mystery that seemed to surround my existence. Perhaps, if I managed to understand the meaning of my recurring dreams, I could finally understand my own life, give some meaning to this dark and hostile labyrinth in which I found myself irremediably trapped.
I looked at the wall clock, its hands marking 11:30 PM with cruel precision. It had gotten very late, too late for the peace my mind longed for. Tomorrow would be one of those days that dragged on like a heavy shadow, full of imposed tasks and feigned smiles, a pantomime of normality that exhausted my soul. But sleep, that elusive escape, refused to find me, keeping me prisoner of my own thoughts.
The feeling of anguish, a cold and tight knot that had permanently settled in my chest, slowly suffocated me, constricting my breathing. Tears, like small sharp needles, began to prick my eyes again, threatening to overflow and flood the fragile dam of my self-control. I let out a shaky sigh, a choked sound that barely broke the silence of the night, and finally gave in to the surge of my feelings, allowing the tears to flow freely down my cheeks. I cried silently, like a frightened little girl, vulnerable and completely lost in the immensity of this strange house, unable to contain the piercing pain that consumed me from within.
I can't find words to describe the overwhelming feeling that constantly haunts me, that visceral sensation that something is wrong, that an invisible calamity is about to befall me. It's as if a spectral shadow follows my every step, lurking in every dark corner of this mansion, patiently waiting for the opportune moment to pounce on me and tear me apart.
The ostentatious beauty of Paris, the bright lights that adorn its streets, and the apparent vitality of its people had become an empty and hollow stage, a dazzling facade that concealed an imminent danger, an invisible threat that loomed over my existence like a storm cloud.
Suddenly, another memory, a cold blow of reality, burst into my mind with the force of a wave, like an old, grainy film projected onto a white and desolate wall.
I was again at my Aunt Mariela's funeral, although this time the scene was clearer, more painfully real. I was a little girl of barely five years old, lost and tiny in a sea of somber adults dressed in black, their faces veiled by grief. The cloying and heavy scent of withered flowers mixed with the acrid aroma of burning candles, creating an oppressive atmosphere that intensified with the silent and contained weeping of the family.
Mom approached me, her eyes red and swollen from recent tears, but there was no comfort in her gaze, only a deep abyss of pain and a silent rage that frightened me.
I approached the dark wooden coffin, driven by a childish curiosity and a cold terror that paralyzed my feet. My Aunt Mariela lay there, pale and still, her features serene as if she were immersed in an eternal sleep from which she would never awaken.
And then I saw it, in a dark corner of the room, the shadow, that amorphous and menacing figure that had spoken to me in my childhood dream, watching me with cold and inscrutable eyes that seemed to know all my fears. I felt an icy chill run down my spine, a dark and inescapable premonition that something terrible was about to happen, something that transcended the simple sadness of a loss.
The memory faded as abruptly as it had arrived, leaving me trembling and my skin covered in a cold and sticky sweat. What did all this mean? Why were these dark dreams, these fragmented and painful memories, tormenting me now with such intensity?
I felt a painful lump in my throat, a suffocating mixture of paralyzing fear and deep despair. I knew, deep down, that something was wrong, that an invisible threat loomed over my future. And a persistent, almost palpable feeling told me that my Aunt Mariela, from beyond, was desperately trying to warn me about something, about an imminent danger that I was unable to see clearly.
I let out a shaky sigh and, drying my tears with my trembling fingers, wrote in the diary with a feverish urgency what I had just remembered, as if putting the words on paper could alleviate the oppressive weight that had settled in my chest. I desperately needed to find a way to vent the torrent of dark feelings that struck me with such force, the paralyzing anguish and the cold fear that slowly consumed me. I went down silently to the music room, a sanctuary of relative silence amidst the emotional chaos that reigned in the mansion.
Upon entering, my eyes automatically fell on the large and elegant white piano, as majestic and silent as ever. I remembered the endless music lessons imposed by my parents, another obligation on the long list of expectations that I never managed to fulfill to their satisfaction, but tonight, I desperately needed those forced lessons to serve for something more than to please their vanities.
I sat down at the piano, feeling the smooth coolness of the ivory keys under my trembling fingers. I closed my eyes tightly and let myself be carried away by the imperious need for expression, allowing the music to flow through me like an overflowing torrent.
I began to play a melody that had always resonated with the melancholy I felt inside, Beethoven's 'Für Elise', a sweet and sad piece that seemed to understand my silent pain. The notes filled the room with increasing intensity, a torrent of dark emotions that rose and cascaded, expressing the deep sadness, the paralyzing fear, and the overwhelming loneliness that gripped my soul.
Each note I pressed was a silent tear, each complex chord a choked cry that echoed in the silence of the night. The music became my voice, a universal language that needed no words to express the piercing pain I felt in the depths of my being.
I played with desperate passion, with contained fury, with a despair that grew with each measure, releasing the oppressive tension that gripped my body and spirit. Tears welled up again, silent but abundant, but this time, they were not just tears of sadness and fear, but also tears of cathartic release.
The melancholic melody of 'Für Elise' became a safe haven, an ethereal place where I could be authentically myself, without the masks of forced courtesy or the pretenses of indifference. The music enveloped me like a warm embrace, comforted me in my loneliness, infused me with a faint but persistent strength. At that moment, only the piano and I existed, immersed in a world of pure sounds and emotions, a silent dialogue between the soul and the melody.