My name is Kat, short for Katharine. I do not know where I was born, but I grew up in a small village in the Western Kingdom. The village was so small that you would need a magnifying glass to find it on a map, yet that tiny place was the only world I knew.
A hill stood to the north, a forest to the south, and between them ran a narrow stream born from the waterfall beneath the hill. It traveled through the center of our village before ending at a beautiful lake inside the forest. Houses, from small cottages to elegant mansions, stood on either side of the stream. Tiny arched bridges connected the two halves, each high enough for the little rowing boats that drifted beneath them. Stone-paved roads carved the village into pieces, yet somehow brought everyone together. It was a simple place, peaceful and warm, a small slice of utopia.
Our home was a cottage on the edge of the village, near the beginning of the stream and surrounded by gardens on all sides. Only a short walk away was the waterfall. The road before our house was the only thing connecting us to the rest of the village. It looked like a countryside painting come to life.
I lived there with my grandmother and my father. Until I was five, he never left my side. Every morning he woke me early, cooked my breakfast, packed my lunch, and walked me to school at the far end of the village.
In the evenings he walked me home, helped me change, folded my uniform neatly, and took me into the village so I could play with the other children. When the other kids did not play, he took me walking through the village or camping by the waterfall. There was never a day without him. People called us the 'Inseparable.' Sometimes they even criticized us, but he always said, 'They are jealous of us,' and smiled warmly. I always giggled hearing that.
Then, when I turned five, things changed. He began receiving phone calls and letters. He grew sad. One day he said a friend needed his help and he left the village for a day. Three days later he returned and told me his friend could not work without him, so he had to leave for three months.
I did not understand then, but after he left, I waited at my window every evening and the truth settled in. I cried. I stayed sad for the whole three months except for one thing, his phone call. Every day at exactly five, the telephone rang. No matter where I was at 4:59, by five I stood before the phone, waiting.
The next year he left again for three months. And again the next. Eventually it became a routine.
Grandma did everything in his absence, breakfast, school, dinners, everything he used to do. But her presence never filled his absence. I missed him every time and never got used to it.
When I was twelve, he returned after another three-month trip, but this time he did not come alone. He brought a woman. She hugged me tightly, cried when he introduced me as her daughter, and she never left our side.
Always listening to my stories, playing games with me and always smiling like a small girl.
Three or four months passed. Then, one night, he received a call past midnight and left the next morning, saying his friend needed him urgently and he would return in a week or two.
During those days, with him gone but my mother present, I hoped I will not feel the same lonliness I felt always. I hoped she would fill it. But I hoped too much.
As if a switch was flipped, she stopped spending time with me. First the games, then the talks, then smiles. She did not even look at me.
Still, I tried clinging to her like I did before. For two days she tolerated it, but then she shouted and I stopped.
After that she rarely stayed in the house. She wandered through the village, talking to the men, smiling at them in ways I did not want to understand. I refused to believe anything was wrong.
Then, on the first night of the second week, I woke to strange noises outside my room. I left quietly, careful not to disturb Grandma. The sounds came from the guest room upstairs. As I walked up the stairs, the noises grew louder, clearer, and far less innocent. They were not sounds. They were moans.
When I reached the door and peeked inside, I saw my mother naked, sitting on top of a naked man, her body rising and falling on his.
The twelve-year-old me did not understand what they were doing, not really, yet I knew with absolute certainty that it was wrong. Whatever it was, it was wrong.
Even so, even while disgust twisted inside me, I kept watching. My body grew hotter the longer I stared and when I suddenly felt her gaze fall on me, I panicked. I ran back to my room and threw myself onto the bed, pretending to sleep.
Some time later, the low thrumming of a car engine drifted through my window and curiosity pushed me toward it. When I peeked outside, I saw the man who had been with my mother in the guest room. He was already in the driver's seat, starting the engine.
If I had not seen his face that night, the memory might have haunted me less, but I did see it and the moment I recognized him, the whole thing turned into a nightmare that clung to me for years. He was my father's only friend in the village and he was also the father of my best friend, the girl I had envied my entire childhood for having the perfect loving parents.
The next morning, before Grandma or I woke, Mother fled the village. She took every coin stored in the house. That same evening my father returned and when Grandma told him what had happened, he looked at me and said, "It is again me, you and Grandma then."
His lips smiled, but his eyes cried. Then he went straight into his room and shut the door. He did not come out for the rest of the day.
From that night onward, nothing felt normal. In school I avoided my best friend, sometimes I even hated her for having the family I lost. During her birthday party I ran away, unable to watch her parents act loving as if such things were ordinary. That became my routine, avoiding her in the day and battling nightmares in the night.
It took months before I stopped hating her, and only after that could I act normal around her again. But deep inside, I knew I had never been the same with her. As for the nightmares, they never stopped.
Years passed like that, with me burying that night deep in my heart, fighting dreams, forcing myself not to resent my friend. Then my fifteenth birthday came.
It should have been just another birthday, but two days before it, I bled for the first time. Father was so happy that he threw the biggest birthday party of my life. He invited the entire village. By evening the garden was overflowing with people. It was embarrassing to see him so ecstatic, yet watching his effort, I felt secretly pleased.
Every year we camped near the waterfall on the night of my birthday and we planned to do the same. But after the party ended, Grandma said she felt unwell and chose to stay home. Father wanted to stay with her, yet I held him back. For once, I wanted to be selfish. It was my birthday night. I wanted him entirely to myself, and more than that, I did not want the night to end with another nightmare.
So I convinced him. We set up the tent, stayed there together, and talked until the stars dimmed. Before sunrise, he woke me gently and we walked home, laughing about the party and the things people had said.
I remember it perfectly. We were laughing as we pushed the door open, but our smiles vanished the instant we looked inside. The image before us was something neither of us expected.
Grandma lay on the floor, right in front of the doorway.