There are times like this, where i wonder why i am here. Why me and not someone else who is worth of that life given to me?... because i am certainly unworthy of it
Yesterday, my parents took me to the hospital to remove a cystis from my chest, which turned out to be something else, something with hard texture and swollen. They couldn't remove it in the emergency room.
In other words, they cut through my chest for nothing.
I wasn't really bothered with the stitches. This area above my cleavage felt more numb rather than painful after the local anesthisia's effects faded. My mum however appeared to be upset, which was a very surprising reaction from my point of view. Knowing my mum, she is not that kind of person to get easily affected, express her worries openly or even allow her voice to shake -perhaps the only thing we have in common. She's got tough nerves and her eight years as a surgeon assistant has some particular images burned into her mind, aong with the apathia that follows when confronting a body's interior for so long, and more importantly, contributing to cure it. Offering to assist the doctor in charge indicated she still has that fire in her, i could tell by the way she was handling the equipment -kinda like the way she cooks, with grace and skill.
I supposed that my cut, whose size could be equalized to a chocolate bar, would be a very common sight.
I was wrong.
The morphasm in her face when the doctor was trying to stitch me up -apparently, my skin is very hard and the needle got stuck in the process- and her obvious manifestations of worry contradicted my assumption. Not only i could see the pain on her face, she aalso expressed it with words. I had never seen her in such a state, not even when i was seriously ill. For me, the stitches and the swollen part of my skin would only be an obstacle in my sleep, since it wouldn't allow me to sleep in my usual posture, but for her, it had a significance i couldn't grasp.
A woman like her, who has assisted doctors in performing much more complicated operations was now perturpted by the smallest of cuts. I would justify her if her object of concern was that swollen part, but the doctor claimed it shouldn't be serious.
No, it wasn't the cut or the stitches...
It was me
It has always been me
Her object of concern is me
It has always been me
From the very first second i was out of her body
Wether it was the stitches,a small wound on the knee from when i hit it in the table corner, that cut on my face where i was a kid, pretending to be a santa close who was shaving his face, the time i had appendicitis, the time i got lost in the mall...
At those times, i was never afraid. Call it my apathia, call it my remarkable resist in pain, call it my ignorance, whatever it is that i posses, but most of the time, it makes me unable to feel fear, specificaly at times when normal people feel it.
However, she felt the pain in her own knee, in her own cheek, in her own stomach, she felt lost without my small hand secured in her own. She felt it all for me, even though she refused to show it. If i were to describe it, the first words that come to my mind are strong and realistic. Yet the first one is questionable when it comes to me.
Her heart melts for her children, for me and Lanna, though we never really appreciated it
In fact, i find it stupid of her to care for such a low life like me
I supposrt the same opinion when it comes to my dad.
Ambrose Key is a man worthy of respect. The discipline he applies to his way of life, his faith to his loved ones, his strong refusal of giving up, his selflesness, and way more are the reasons i feel proud i have a father like him.
But it also makes me miserable...
Thos people have graces, human flaws, passions, they've built their life together andhave loved each other deeply for 27 years.
I wonder... Could they imagine, 18 years ago, that that child inside Helga Key, would grow up to be that pathetic walking existance carrying my name.
*sigh* I don't deserve these people, i don't deserve this life
I bet you wonder what did i do that makes me label myself with all these negative adjectives.
Truth be told, i didn't commit a murder or became a terrosist...it's not only what i do, it's also what i don't do.
But let's start with the beggining, for only this way both me and you can both understand what happened here
My name is Raphaela Key and this is my story.