God Only Knows

I have always taken pride in my strength to smile, be polite, and well-mannered, no matter how I actually felt. That's why I was shocked when, in a new city, among new people and colleagues, having transferred to a new company, I visited every department and introduced myself, except one. In the office sat about ten people, none of whom were interesting enough to describe, except Him—another stranger. I appropriately introduced myself to everyone with a handshake, and while they were all obviously staring at me, I nonchalantly passed by the Stranger, boiling with shame inside for behaving that way. It's true that I follow my instincts, but I didn’t even get the chance to properly look at him before my body refused to shake his hand or acknowledge his existence at all. The awkwardness in the air was quickly overlooked due to the speed of events. Drenched in shame, red-faced, and with my heart pounding, I left the room.

Something wasn't right. It felt like that wasn’t me. I sensed deep down that something wasn't right.

Yet another of the many situations where “something wasn’t right,” but I couldn’t understand what, due to my disability.

The fact that the Gods had granted everyone the ability to remember all their past lives—except me—made everyday situations harder for me. Even as a child, other kids called me strange, different, and as an adult, even crazy. In a school for disabled children, I was the only student because I didn’t know anything from past lives and had to learn history, geography, and other subjects, while the other children didn't need school since they carried all the knowledge from before.

My parents did their best. When I say "parents," my father was so ashamed of me that he lost his hair, but my mother took me to countless doctors. Neurologists and psychiatrists—no answer. Psychiatrists and psychologists—nothing. A gynecologist suggested performing surgery on my uterus, to which my mother replied, "Try that surgery on your daughter." An ophthalmologist proposed eye surgery, to which my mother responded, "I hope yours fall out," and she gave up on doctors altogether. I was completely healthy, medically speaking, but no one could find an answer to why I was the only one who couldn’t remember my past lives. Surely there must be someone like me, but not in my ecosystem. As a young woman, I tried every possible alternative medicine method. Regressive hypnosis, various tapping techniques, spinning around, grannies energy healers, grandfathers clairvoyant, tarot readers, Gypsy fortune tellers, teas… They all concluded that I had forgotten some horrible death, but no one could go beyond that. My file was stamped “disabled,” as if it wasn’t already hard enough to live with my own mark.

Because of this disability, today once again, I couldn't understand what wasn’t right. The other non-disabled snobs would also have these sensations, but they would recall their past bad affairs and work on correcting them. The Gods had revealed to us that the purpose of life is to correct the mistakes of past lives. I, therefore, had no purpose.

For a while that day, as my unease didn’t subside, I thought about possible previous scenarios with the Stranger, but as I kept going in circles, listing possibilities without any confirmation, I made a decision. Since he had caused such intense discomfort in me, whatever it was—it wasn’t good. Even though we work at the same company but in different departments, no one would notice me avoiding that man. For months, I still hadn’t introduced myself to him, and when we’d be at work gatherings, I gave him a angry look to let him know he shouldn’t speak to me either—and it worked perfectly.

People with angry expressions are usually just afraid, but no one said people got wiser after a hundred lives to once and for all remember that. Quite the opposite. I always wondered what they were like a hundred lives ago, given how stupid they are now. But not Him.

One evening, around eleven, which in my line of work is after hours, the landline in my hotel room rang. I’ve always been afraid of the phone because I never know what the person on the other end will say, and besides, mobile phones already existed, so the hotel's ringing upset me quite a bit. Still, I answered. Oh my God! A deep, sexy male voice—calming and smiling. It was Him. The Stranger. Since my “bitch” mask is dominant, I naturally asked him where he found the nerve to call me in my hotel room after hours. Sexily smiling and quiet, he explained that we were assigned the same project and needed to coordinate between our two departments. Normally, I wouldn't accept that explanation, but for some reason, this time it was enough, and the conversation continued, quickly shifting from business to intimate after just a few sentences. I relaxed, lowered my guard, and expressed myself in a dialect of a cat. The whole time, I couldn’t shake the feeling I simply call—intensity. The hatred I initially felt towards him shifted into "butterflies," though no longer in my stomach, not even in my chest, but in my uterus. We whispered for hours, and at one point, he revealed something shocking. He, too, was disabled! Intensity surged through my mind! Could it be true?! As a typical woman (which I usually avoid being), I couldn’t help but wonder: “Did the Gods intend for the two of us to be together?” But after that night’s conversation ended, I washed my face, lit a cigarette, and gathered myself. The Stranger had been married for years, with two children, and I don’t need that kind of drama in my life. I woke up the next morning strong, determined to resist the intensity. It didn’t last long.

When I came down to the hotel terrace to have my morning coffee, bathed in sunlight, I saw Him in the park in front of the hotel with a boy about five years old. He clearly didn’t want to resist. He wanted me to meet his children. I attended his live performances—outside work, he had a band. He sang to me. At work, if you had just once think about it, you would easily see that we were intense. Luckily, people don’t think. Conversations that lasted hours every night before bed became a ritual. Whether I liked it or not, I was quickly consumed. But… the strange feeling, the sense that "something wasn’t right," never left me. I just replaced it with the thought that it was the feeling of being destined.

The word "strange" was no longer enough to describe the situation, but its presence had definitely grown stronger. No matter how strong our desire to unite was, it was impossible. On our first attempt at a kiss, a pigeon crashed into the large window, all bloodied barged into the room, and the glass shattered. He had to sneak out the back so I could call the reception. On our second attempt, the hotel’s fire alarm went off. We all had to evacuate. He snuck out the back again. Third time’s the charm: colleagues interrupted us by banging on my door, inviting me to join their party next door since they knew I was there. The back exit. This started turning the intensity back into discomfort.

One evening, He rushed in unexpectedly, out of breath, saying, “We’re going to kiss now, even if the hotel starts to collapse!”

Although the Gods had been keeping us apart all this time for reasons only known to them, seeing that we obviously weren’t going to listen to them and learn our lessons, they finally gave up on us and let happen what they had been protecting us from all along.

The intensity became a sensation. After so many failures, waiting, and attempts, everything happened like on a merry-go-round. Everything spun, colorful lights flashed with no warning of possible epilepsy triggers, a retarded melody blared on repeat, and finally, we became one! We united.

Looking back now, I’m sure the Gods were laughing, but I, already angry at them because of my disability, had made peace with them as a child. If I serve them by making them laugh and bringing them joy while they take care of the rest of humanity, then: "Go ahead! It’s my pleasure to make you happy for others."

Maybe the Gods were indeed laughing at the moment we united, but we definitely weren't... Like a sudden cut, the intensity brought a feeling of death! In a single moment, united at last, we saw our past lives.

I was a healer, but even in this modern age, people would call me a witch, a word that, unfortunately, has taken on a terrible meaning. Back then, I brewed potions, helping people heal, see clearly, and remember themselves and their desires... I performed rituals in gratitude to Mother Nature and in honor of the Gods. The Gods loved me; they didn’t mind that a human being was helping them. People. People were afraid of me. Anything unknown frightens people, and when they are afraid, they hide it with aggression.

In that moment of union, alongside the feeling of death, I saw male hands gripping me tightly under my arms, dragging me across the ground. My long black hair was disheveled, my white dress was muddy, my bare feet were bloody, and I cried, begging for mercy. The crowd spat at me, insulted me (no wonder I have no man or friends today, that I sit at home alone, writing, afraid to go out among people). Then came the tying and the bonfire.

Several years later, when the Stranger wrote me his first and last letter, he informed me that in that moment of union, he hadn’t seen me until I was being dragged through the mud. He saw himself as a ruler who wanted to show the people his power by personally burning the witch as an example to others.

And that’s where we met. The Stranger burned me at the bonfire in a past life, to the joy of most who were present.

It was the Gods who were merciful to me, making me forget, but him too, so that he would never seek me out in this life and either repeat the scenario or, as happened, made me remember my past one.

The moment passed. In horror, we separated and looked at each other. His eyes full of tears, he whispered, barely audibly: "I’m sorry..." and we never saw each other again.

Separated, he did not atone for his sins in this life, and I don’t believe he will in any future one either. Because I began to understand. I never had anything to feel guilty about, nor anything to be ashamed of. First, I spent a long time freeing myself from feelings of guilt, shame, and embarrassment, then accepting and understanding the nicknames “weird” and “different.” Finally, I started to remember myself, all my past lives, and I have come to like myself.

But one thing bothers me... A few years ago, this little rhyme formed in my head, and it doesn’t leave me when I wake nor when I go to sleep.

“Burn the witch, they said,

all blind to her  grace.

In their flames, she found power,

from the ashes she raised. 

There once was a witch,

all loving and true.

Now you’ve created a witch

that is coming for you.”

Is my lesson forgiveness or revenge?

Only the Gods know.

(Poem "The witch" written by Tanja Schalling)