THE SPECTATOR
Written by Ozancan Demirışık
Translated by Burak Kum
You remember that day very clearly, don’t you? The day you stabbed the thief from his thighs.
The day you were stained, defiled. Instead you could pretend to be asleep. What would happen then; the thief would probably take a few valuable items, that’s it… Later tomorrow you would wake up and tell your parents what happened that night, what you realized.
But what did you do? You killed the guy. And you were only seventeen. You were just beginning your life. You know that knife -like you knew what was going to happen you put that knife in that drawer… You stabbed him from his thighs.
The guy died. Blood was spilled all over the place. What did you do; took out the knife, put all the things that the thief tried to take and than cleaned everywhere.
And than you took the body, buried it to the lawn. When you got up the next day you had a load on your shoulders; as if your hart was ripped out, a piece of it was gone. The weight of being a murderer was on your shoulders. I could live my life just what it used to be, you told yourself, but no help!
And it was just that time everything began. You became scared. You didn’t know what it was. “It’s all over now,” you said. “What am I still afraid of?"
And than it hit you.
You were afraid of yourself.
Doing the same thing again.
“Are you idiot, man!” you said to yourself. “Snap out of it. What does it mean ‘being afraid of yourself’?”
But what happened again? Yes, yes. Again “no help”
***
When he got up, his feet took him to his parents’ bedroom. He didn’t know what was the reason but he had this weird feeling. It was still a little dark outside; right now this hallway was reminding him of the mysterious rooms from horror films.
You stabbed that man from his thighs.
He kept walking with an unpleasant look on his face. The hallway was getting longer and longer, or it was just him thinking like that. At last he came to bedroom door; he was just about to knock the doors with his fingers but he heard a scream.
Losing himself, he hit the door with his shoulder. The voice that came from door made him even more scared. In the end he entered. It was obviously his mother who screamed a little while ago. His father was lying on the bed with his mouth open.
“What happened?” he said looking at his mother. “What happened? I SAID WHAT HAPPENED!”
His mother’s eyes opened with surprise. She screamed again.
He backed off a couple of steps. Why his mother couldn’t speak? Why did she look at him and scream?
You became scared. You didn’t know what it was.
“Your father…” she mumbled. “…is dead.”
What? ‘What does she mean by ‘Your father is dead.”
He backed off a few more couple of steps.
This time his mother looked at her husband’s face. He had a clear look of fear on his face. Woman turned back to his son and let out another scream.
He put his hands on his ears and hoped that the scream would stop. His mother wouldn’t stop screaming. “Why is this woman screaming? Why?” He closed his eyes, when he opened them again it was like the sound of the scream was a couple of times louder. The woman’s mouth was close, than how come he can still hear this sound?
“It’s all over now,” you said. “What am I still afraid of?
The sound didn’t stop; he could feel his fingers were twitching. His mother was crying near his father, her mouth was shut as if it was duct taped. If he couldn’t hear the sound so loudly, he would think she wasn’t screaming at all.
The sound was unbearable now. He could only realized, like in a blur, his hands were raising. And these hands being tied around his mother’s neck.
His eyes were closed.
And he woke up…
His mother was lying on the floor. Veins on his hands were so clearly visible. He checked his mother’s pulse. She was dead…
His tears became a flood. And he remembered.
And than it hit you.
You were afraid of yourself.
Doing the same thing again.
He looked at his hands. He was scared, more than ever before. And again it was only himself that he was afraid of.
***
Maybe you wanted all this pain to end, maybe something else. I can’t know, I just watched.
You ran to the lawn. Dug the earth with your bare hands. Dug out the man you killed before with horrible screams, you’ve buried the knife with the body there.
You took that knife and went out of the house.
You mumbled something while you were digging.
Hang on, what was that?
“The only way to avoid being scared of myself is to make others be scared of me.”
And I watched. I watched while you were leaving, killing everyone on your way. I couldn’t do anything…
Now you are in a grave, dead. I am still watching you. And it’s really boring, be sure of that. Watching the bugs decomposing your body and again being able to do nothing.
Actually you were right. The only way to avoid being scared of yourself is to make others be scared of you. But if you adn’t done that, becoming a killer, you wouldn’t have to be afraid of yourself, wouldn’t you?
But never mind me, I am just a spectator. But never forget this: There is an audience only if there is someting worth watching.
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