WHEN TIME DID NOT HEEL

People say time will heal the pain.

But as time passed, the pain only grew.

Life was never the same again.

I missed our two hours of talking every day. Those calls had been my anchor, my routine, my proof that she was still there. Alisa had a sense of humor, or maybe she used humor to hide her pain. Now, without her voice, the days felt longer, heavier, unbearable.

My parents’ house became like a graveyard. Silence. Crying. My father drinking, trying to numb at least a small part of the pain.

I stayed with them for the first three weeks.

One day, my sister-in-law was sitting with my father on the porch. I overheard him telling her about the blanket: how we had been covered under it, how he stared describing every single detail. He didn’t forget anything. Every part of the story lived inside him, replaying over and over.

My heart was pounding. I couldn’t stop the tears. I hid from everyone so they wouldn’t see me break.

I kept asking the same questions, again and again.

Why?

Why did he do it?

What was his plan?

Did he even have a plan?

I had no explanation except this: he was a living devil. We lived through war. We saw terrible things. Women captured, lives destroyed. But from the stories I heard, not even the enemy did to them what this devil did to Alisa.

He had a son with her.

He never thought about how this would affect him.

None of my questions had answers.

The day I was getting ready to leave and return to the United States, I heard her voice calling my name. I answered without thinking. My cousin looked at me and asked who I was talking to.

I am still convinced it was her voice.

When I came back home to United States, I tried hard to act normal around my children. I smiled when I needed to. I stayed strong when I broke inside.

I wanted to know if there was life after death. At that time,

I worked at Rochester Oxygen. After regular shift ended, I would go there to work. I did device testing and a lot of printing, so it didn’t disturb anyone. It was quiet there. Safe.

She had written me a message once. I saved it.

“Deno, you are my eyes. You are my heart. I love you so, so much.”

I read that message every day. After her death, I talked to her. I wrote her text messages, waiting for her jokes, waiting for her replies.

I keep her close to me.

I thought I was ready to write this book.

But every word is followed by tears.

Oh, how I miss her.

I miss her so much.

What hurts me the most now is that even after eighteen years, since she went to heaven, I still receive calls telling me not to write anything. As if they are there, and I am here. As if silence is still required.

People are still afraid of one piece of s***.

I told them, “Do what you used to do. Hide. I will not hide. I will not stop calling him and the others out. I will come there. I will write on Facebook the address where I am staying.”

I fear only God.