The Fall

THE FALL I had fallen, fainted. When I opened my eyes in the intensive care unit of the hospital, everything about my past was shrouded in darkness. Everything was gone; I didn’t even know my own name. They said I had hit my head while falling. A head trauma, they called it. My memory might return, or I might never remember anything. They said I had to live with it and engage in activities that might trigger my memories. And then, during one of these conversations, he entered the room. Holding a large bouquet of flowers, a wide smile on his face, he said, "So you’ve woken up. It’s wonderful to see your eyes again." This man, handsome, charismatic, elegant, and seemingly a true gentleman, was my husband. He hadn’t left the hospital for a single moment. According to the doctors, I had been there for exactly twenty-two days. A broken arm, a leg fractured in three places, moderate injuries to my face and ears, and a head trauma. When I asked how it had happened, this gentleman began to explain. "I had come home from work. I called out to you, saying I was home. You had set up a lovely table on the rooftop to surprise me. As you were running toward me, your ankle twisted on the stairs, and you started to fall. I ran to catch you, but it was too late. Then we rushed to the hospital. I was so scared something would happen to you; I can’t even describe it." He was talking, but his words meant nothing to me. Clearly, I had loved this man, my husband, very much. Yet it all felt meaningless. The next day, my discharge procedures were completed, and I saw that the place where I lived was truly enormous. We lived in a villa set on a vast estate. My husband had prepared the entire house before I returned, reduced the number of staff, and taken full responsibility for my care. He would take me to the garden to rest while having my room cleaned. He believed I shouldn’t meet anyone for now. "I’ll do everything to help you remember me first," he said. In truth, that was what I wanted most as well. The things he described were so beautiful that forgetting such a wonderful marriage seemed like a shame. For instance, I apparently loved fishing with him in the lake behind the house. "You’d climb trees and eat fruit straight from the branches," he said. I used to do childish things, but I enjoyed them immensely. I sighed with a smile, wishing I could remember. As days passed, even though I couldn’t remember the man I called my husband, his attention and behavior always gave me hope. I had completely recovered by then. My leg and arm had healed. I wanted to go outside. One day, I asked, "Did I have any friends before?" Apparently, I didn’t have many friends and didn’t like going out. I also didn’t have parents. When I first heard this, I was very upset. Then I got used to it. We were not just husband and wife but also best friends. I thought, if we were enough for each other, why not? Together, we constantly found things to entertain ourselves indoors. We played cards, fished, climbed trees. I was as happy as a child. Everything was nearly perfect. Until that day. That day, when I asked him, "So, where are your parents?" his facial features tensed so much that for a moment, I thought he was losing his mind. Then his face fell, and he sank into a deep silence. "They’re dead," he said in a low voice. He changed the subject. At that moment, I realized something was wrong. I didn’t press him, but I was dying to know what was going on. I had to learn what was troubling my husband and help him with it. I postponed asking questions. After recovering physically, I started cooking his meals to make him happy. He would go to the factory, come home to eat the meals I prepared, and we would chat, sometimes looking at photographs. I wasn’t very photogenic. I always looked unhappy in photos. Apparently, I didn’t like having my picture taken. Oddly enough, I wasn’t very enthusiastic about it now either. I had learned a herbal tea recipe. It was very good for him. Every evening, I would prepare a cup of tea and watch him drink it with pleasure. One evening, as he was enjoying his tea, I asked him again. "Darling, would you like to talk about your parents?" Another deep silence. Then a murmur-like "no." I continued. "I want to know everything about you, every detail. Come on, tell me." "I told you, they’re dead." "Alright, I understand that. But how?" "A car accident. I was only eight years old. We were wealthy. I didn’t lack anyone to take care of me. But they were gone." "You were so young." "The tea is wonderful. Thank you." He had changed the subject again. I didn’t ask any more questions. That night, he kept tossing and turning in bed, as if searching for the right position to sleep. I fell asleep, so I don’t know when he finally did. But he must have, because he woke up screaming, "Mom!" Of course, I jumped out of bed. He was drenched in sweat, his eyes filled with tears. When he realized it was a dream, he didn’t relax; instead, he became even more tense. He got out of bed and left. I didn’t say a word. I left him alone. His state gave me a selfish satisfaction. A few days passed. It was as if he had turned into someone else. He was constantly silent, withdrawn, and irritable. During this time, he woke up every night screaming, "Mom!" His condition began to frighten me. Other than adding more herbal roots to the tea I prepared and praying for it to have an effect, there wasn’t much I could do. He wouldn’t let me. As time went on, some nights he didn’t come to bed at all. Whenever I went downstairs to check, he was awake. It was as if he was afraid to sleep, his eyes wide open, resisting sleep. I would give him tea and go to bed helplessly. I wanted to believe it was a temporary state of mind. Recently, he had also stopped eating. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I asked. "Darling, do you want to talk?" "No!" This "no" was said so harshly that I felt my knees tremble. It settled inside me like a fear from the past. "Alright," I said. As I was quietly heading to the kitchen, I heard a whisper. My husband was talking to himself. "I couldn’t do it, Mom. I was eight years old... How could I have had the strength? ... It wasn’t my fault, don’t say that, please... Don’t call me that, Mom... Dad had already made up his mind; I couldn’t stop him... Mom, I wasn’t the one who killed you... Please forgive me..." Sometimes he would scream at the top of his lungs, arguing with his mother, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing. I was scared, but I also felt deeply sorry for him. I couldn’t help but feel sorry. I was determined; everything would be fine, and I would fight with all my being to make it so. I forced him to eat, with little success. I begged him to see a doctor; he refused. I suggested he go to work, thinking it might help distract him. He paused and only said, "Maybe." After a while, he started going to the factory. It seemed to clear his mind. He was sleeping a little, eating a little. Just enough to survive. His self-conversations hadn’t decreased. On the contrary, he had started reacting as if something suddenly appeared in front of him during these conversations. He would stop to avoid bumping into it, then continue. "I didn’t do it... Don’t be mad, Mom... Don’t cry..." But he continued going to the factory. Weeks passed this way. One afternoon, the phone rang. It was a police officer. He said my husband had been in a car accident and had been taken to the hospital. "You need to come to the hospital," he said. I went. I learned there that he had died in the accident. He had suddenly swerved into the median, crossed to the opposite lane, and collided with an oncoming truck. "We think he had a heart attack," the doctor said. I cried a lot. I was very sad. When I returned home, I instructed the staff to begin the burial arrangements. The funeral was held with a large crowd. I accepted condolences. Some said great calamities had befallen us. Others shared my grief, expecting resilience from me. They all felt insincere. Then I returned home alone. I gave all the staff time off because I wanted to be completely alone. They all left. I popped open a quality bottle of champagne. I had to celebrate my great victory. Why? Let’s go back to how I fell down the stairs... Actually, that night was the first time in a long while he had allowed me to leave the house. As usual, we were going to one of his friends’ houses for one of those stupid parties. It wasn’t much of a problem for me, though. After all, I could breathe a little. He would enjoy himself with his friends. Because I could only breathe when he wasn’t around. When he was with me, it felt like a hand was gripping my throat. My life was spent wandering back and forth within the walls of a grand villa. I was waiting for the right moment to put an end to it. That night, as we were returning home from the party, he said, "I saw what you were doing," and I had no idea what he was talking about. According to him, I had been exchanging glances with one of the men at the party. All I had done was try to find some solitude. Step out onto the balcony, sit in a corner, and clear my head... I had no idea who he was talking about. Yet he was yelling at the top of his lungs, hurling threats and insults. He even accused me of marrying him just for his money. He said he would divorce me, that he had an army of lawyers to prove my infidelity, and that he wouldn’t give me a single penny. As if I cared. I had loved him so much. I would have married him even if he were homeless. I had watched, front row and alone, how an angel could turn into a devil. He was so jealous. I had married a cruel, merciless, and tyrannical man. As our argument continued at home, that’s when I decided to put an end to it. I left him in the living room and hurried to my dressing room. I packed a small suitcase with a few items and was about to leave the house when he caught me at the top of the stairs. He grabbed my arm, apologized, tried to hug me, begged me not to leave, and when he realized he couldn’t stop me, he slapped me with all his strength. That slap, which came out of nowhere, sent me tumbling down the stairs. From his self-conversations, you might have gathered some idea about his relationship with his mother, but the real issue wasn’t his father killing his mother, believe me. It was him becoming his father. My love, my amnesia, my great compassion? Of course, things didn’t happen that way. Everything unfolded exactly as he wanted it to. But in truth, everything began in the intensive care unit. I really did open my eyes in intensive care. I had just woken up a little earlier than they thought. Two nurses were in the room, talking about another patient. It was the shift change, and one nurse was briefing the other about a new patient. "Male, twenty-two years old, took hallucinogens." "Chemical?" "No, natural. He spent the whole day swimming in his friends’ pool, then took hallucinogens in the evening. He thought he was jumping into the pool from the balcony and jumped down. Both arms, radius and ulna fractures, risk of infection. Head trauma. Second- and third-degree injuries in various parts of his body. He’s currently sedated. His chances of survival seem slim." Hallucinogens... The young man they were talking about gave me a brilliant idea. The timing was perfect; I couldn’t even feel sorry for him as I thought about it. I only felt immense gratitude. To execute the plan that came to mind, I first had to pretend I had lost my memory. Since I had a head trauma, this wouldn’t be too surprising. At worst, they would say, "There’s no medical reason for her memory loss; it will surely return," which wouldn’t matter either. After all, I would be a woman who had lost her memory. Fortunately, it didn’t turn out as I feared; they didn’t dwell on the issue much. The rest was the hardest part: conducting serious research and finding a hallucinogen that would make it seem like he had a heart attack even if an autopsy was performed. Moreover, it had to be natural. From what I’ve described, you can already tell I found a perfect one. Obtaining it wasn’t easy, but I managed. The fact that he had sent some of the staff away made things easier. The first day he had to go to the factory, a supply of the root plant that would last me for months arrived at my door. My dear husband’s herbal tea, which I often gave him to relax. At first, just a little. As his body got used to it, more... And in the end, I unleashed the greatest pain into his mind. His mother... Now he was seeing his mother everywhere, arguing with his inner voice, and completely losing his mind. The tea I gave him had also disrupted his sleep patterns, confusing his mind further. I waited until he could no longer distinguish between reality and hallucination. On the day he was supposed to go to work, I served him a strongly brewed cup of tea at breakfast. I was certain he wouldn’t return home that day. What happens now? Here’s what will happen. The army of lawyers who were supposed to prove my infidelity in the event of a divorce will now handle the inheritance proceedings in my name as his sole heir. deri