Rosalia was looking at me with weird eyes as if she had noticed me doing something that I should not have.
There was no blaming look in her eyes, no sting or overt anger, but that only made it worse.
It was the sort of glance that bore confusion, dis-belief, and a silent query that she hadn't verbalized.
As if she was trying to comprehend at what point I had become someone who could do that.
I would never have done the things I do nowadays in the past.
It seems that what is most important is that my family is taken care of
If I were to dig through my memory banks––those far-off, stiff years ingrained in my marrow––I would never be able to locate a point where I would have let myself get that careless.
My former self had been held back to the point of suffocation, governed by regulations, reason, and a calculating grip of self-control.
All movements were calculated. All words were counted.
It was important for feelings to be concealed, repressed, or disregarded.
