During those ten seconds, when the current time line reaches a break point, time stops one turns to the brain’s Google, a search engine of the mind to look for answers. It is now clear that my only option, as long as my little cousin’s father doesn’t do me the favor me of killing me right there, is to escape; to flee Australia immediately. To bribe someone and leave the country at once or to kill myself. Either way, I would never be able to laugh again.
For years on end, I continued to marvel at how cold my reaction had been, under those eternal ten seconds,when I had killed my 2 year old cousin. It was not exactly a cold reaction, but something much worse; a calculating reaction in which my very soul seemed to split in two in an inhuman way. It hurt to know that whether I committed suicide or I escaped (I had yet to decide which one) the pleasures of life were over for me.
Sure, I would go to Norway; a distant, cold country. I would never be able to call my family or friends again. I would get a mean job in a supermarket in Tromsø, but no longer could I ever love a woman or do the things I enjoyed again. I would be embarrassed of my happiness; I would be ashamed of forgetting my past and find moments of distraction. The guilt would always be there with me, involuntarily or not. When, finally, the false sense of calm would kick in, or momentarily, I might begin to forget that terrible afternoon in a small town in Australia, I would force the guilt back upon myself, as to continue suffering. Life was over. I had to go. I had no choice in the matter.