Scratchings
By: Bogdan Groza & Konstantina Kliagkona
That was not me.
I mean, it was my flimsy body with the twig-like arms, the same old worn-out Metallica T-shirt that I used to wear, my scruffy hair and all things considered everything seemed to fit. Something felt awkward, though. Something simply felt off. My face had been scraped off, scratched with a pair of keys or something sharp, a scissor maybe, but that was not the issue. The photograph had been laying there for years, in that dusty box, hidden behind mounds of cobwebs and bundled up furniture. The thing with the scratching and the face was something my sister used to do; one of her many bizarre quirks that she never explained. In her eyes, no face actually belonged in photographs. Not even mine. So, what she would do was simply to erase them out, one way or another. But if I didn’t belong there, in that cabin near the lake, where we would take vacations as a family, then where did I fit in?
Years had passed and now, looking at that picture, thinking about her odd way of seeing the world, I realize that she was right. There was nothingness in the photograph. I could only see a shallow representation of a shattered me, a fragment of something that I had either lost or never even had. As I stood in the middle of the room, with nowhere to sit down since everything had been covered in plastic sheets or boxed away, I felt like I had been drenched in cold water - my body quivered as if it was trying to warn me. It had been doing so, spasmodically, for the past several hours. I had been led to that cabin without even realizing it, a place that had held a grasp on my childhood memories, some fond, some hazy, and some completely forgotten. My head was throbbing as I was trying to remember something. I had to remember. After all, it was here that it had all started, mom preparing the picnic basket in the kitchen, dad checking if his fishing rods were in good condition, me and sis going around with our new camera, trying to find a new subject to photograph. She never once let me use it; I would merely indicate what would be a good angle or what would make a great shot and she would snap the picture. Did she love nature so much? Must have been since every time a passer-by would mistakenly find their way in the photograph, she would scratch out their face.
At this point, I was just walking around, inching my feet slowly across the floor and sweeping away the thick layer of dust. The traces I was leaving behind seemed elongated. Was I dragging my feet? Strange. I used to jump around these squeaky floorboards so much when I was little. I remember mom would always start to yell, especially when me and sis would enter the cabin with our boots all muddied up and we would have to go back outside to rinse them with the garden hose. Mother would yell quite often actually. Her tone was rarely cheerful; it almost had a severe quality to it, stern and rigorous. Father, on the other hand, never seemed to raise his voice, not to say that he smiled a lot either, but at least he wasn’t angry. Mother yelled, father stayed quiet, me and sis rushed out to play near the lake. On our way back, I could hear some words mother would still be shouting: “enough”...”photos”...”out”...
Out? Why would she have said that? Did she want to go back home? Mother never seemed to like that cabin now that I think about it. I don’t remember ever having seen her smiling there. On second thought, I don’t remember her smiling whatsoever. Father was usually the silent type, so I never gave it much attention. But mother? Maybe I didn’t mind it that much back then because I would have sis, and we would laugh together. After that came the boarding school; I was simply sent away one day without many explanations. Mother told me she found a good place for me to stay at; an aunt on my father’s side lived in a city famed for its teaching methods and there I could get a proper education. They just packed my bags and I was off.
The city was big, bigger than I could have imagined - thrilling in some capacity but also something that I did not understand right away. I didn’t know what was going on and why my parents decided to send me there. My aunt at least was welcoming, there was a certain warmth in her mannerisms, but at that time I just wanted to go back home. I wanted to see my sister. The rare times I could call my parents over the phone, it would be my mother to pick up; she would speak empty words, give no explanations and cut the conversation short telling me it was for my own good. I imagined at the time she meant the new school. When I would ask about sis, if I could talk to her, she would fall silent. The same would happen when I asked how much longer I was supposed to stay with my aunt.
As first weeks passed by, my questions left unanswered, then months slowly started to pile up which then became years. The initial frustration, the fear, the anger that I had, as well as all of the questions, without notice simply subsided. Eventually I had gotten used to the situation; school diverted much of my attention as well as the people I met. A part of my life seemed to have vanished without me realizing it. Time will do that to you.
And then I was twenty-two. I had grown taller, no longer as skinny but still with the same scruffy hair. I had finished with my education and eventually gotten a job in an architect firm. Everything seemed to be where it was supposed to be until, one day, the phone rang. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, but it was one I hadn't heard in a very long time; it still had a severe tone to it, but there was also a distinct somber note. Mother told me that I should return; the funeral was to take place in three days.
There was a faint scent of lavender in the air, but not many people were there to notice. I felt suffocating in the suit; the sun was unbearably hot that day and the weather was particularly humid. Mother was there, under the shade of a tree; time had not been gentle. Her hair was white, wrinkles adorned her face and she seemed tired. I don’t think it was because she had cried; she just seemed to want for that day to end, to put everything behind her. Father was there as well, closer to the coffin; his face, stoic as ever. I couldn’t tell if there was a teardrop on his cheek or if it was just sweat. We had exchanged just a few words prior and nothing more. I couldn't think of much to talk with them. I had noticed, however, there were no wedding rings on their fingers, but I didn’t ask. We behaved almost as perfect strangers, stood there, looking at the coffin. There was nothingness, although she was still my little sister.
After the ceremony, an older man approached me. He started saying something about being her psychiatrist, talked to me, explained the situation, but after a while I just stopped understanding. I felt lightheaded, awkward even; I didn’t belong there, nobody did. I thanked him for having taken care of my sister and left. What followed was a blur - several hours had passed, maybe even a full day. What I do know is that I found myself back at the family cabin.
So that was why.
We were sent away and that was it. End of story.
As I stood there, looking through the various photographs and seeing all of those scratches I couldn’t help but to think that she was right. Those people didn’t actually belong in those pictures. None of us did. Now I know.
In the pile there was one photograph left, one that my sister had missed: it was a picture of me, only slightly blurred. I grabbed the keys from out of my pocket, looked once again at that distorted face and scratched out something that had never been mine to begin with.
She was right.
Bogdan Groza, born in Romania and currently living in Italy, is doing a PhD in Philology and literary criticism at the faculty of Siena. Although he has been working mostly in Italian for the past several years, publishing in minor anthologies, recently he started writing in English to see how this influences his stories and narration.Facebook | IG | BlogKonstantina Kliagkona holds an MSc degree in Criminology & Criminal Psychology from the University of Portsmouth, U.K., and a BA (Hons) in English Language and Literature from the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, Greece. For the past 14 years, she has been working as an EFL teacher and as a criminologist/profiler.