Conscience

(Above-The cramped basement where Elisabeth and 3 kids were imprisoned; Below-Josef Fritzl; Lowest-His daughter Elisabeth at age 11)

'Conscience' is defined by Wikipedia as 'a hypothesised ability or faculty that distinguishes whether our actions are right or wrong. It leads to feelings of remorse when we do things that go against our moral values, and to feelings of rectitude or integrity when our actions conform to our moral values. It is also the attitude which informs our moral judgment before performing any action.'

By this definition, we can safely conclude that most of humanity has lost the responsibility, the essential sense of morality, that a conscience ensures.

Most of us are now aware of the 'Horror House' in Austria, where 73-year-old Josef Fritzl imprisoned his daughter Elisabeth for 24 long years in a windowless basement, locked with an electronic code. In a chillingly cold case of incest, he bore seven children by her. The former electrician, the perpetrator of this tragedy that transgresses all boundaries, reportedly said that he was 'sorry' for his family, and that he just wanted to be left alone.

Which, to me, is an incredible thing. In his quiet moments, doesn't the merciless pain he inflicted upon his hapless daughter torture him? How does his conscience allow him to sleep nights? Don't his thoughts and nightmares rankle with the corpse of the baby-HIS baby-that he incinerated in an oven? How could his wife and six of Elisabeth's siblings not have known what was happening? It has come to light that Josef first sexually assaulted Elisabeth when she was 11, precipitating her desperate attempts to run away from home at the ages of 16 and 18. Ultimately, her father lured her to her new 'home', a basement with a concrete door, devoid of natural light, hope or happiness. A place where she birthed seven children by a monster, without anyone knowing or caring. Josef claimed that she had run away with a religious sect, and made three of his illegitimate children(or grandchildren?) appear on his doorstep. The other three children were forced to live in the dingy room with their mother. It is impossible to empathise with what they must've suffered, and witnessed-rapes and beatings instead of school and games. I find it laughable that no one realised what was going on-Josef's wife, his family, his neighbours. Or did they turn the other cheek? That is more probable.

On a smaller scale, my mother and I went shopping the other day. We saw an old, shrivelled lady, standing near the shop, dressed well but not extravagantly. She did not seem well to do, her hands were twitching with nervousness and she appeared lost; she wasn't a beggar. She pleaded with us to help her and narrated her tale of woe-robbed of her purse, she was in a strange city with no food and no way to meet her son who lived here. Pitying her, my mother gave her money. When I looked back again, there was no sign of the woman. Her seemingly frail vulnerability had just been a phenomenal piece of acting.

Sigh.

In the fairytales everything is so perfect. In the movies. In all stories. Daddies kiss their little girls goodnight and little old ladies bake fragrant cakes and never lie because they are God fearing souls. In real life, incest is more common than most people believe it is and nothing is what it seems.

Reality is so disappointing. Painful. Cruel. Harsh. And oh yeah, real.

The metamorphosis

My eyes flew open as my breath returned in slow, rattling gasps. Vivid images chased each other incessantly in my head. Dizzy, muddled and disoriented, I reached for the glass of water on my bedside table-and promptly landed on the floor, because my legs were entwined in my blanket. Without even the will to pull myself up, I hugged my knees and started to cry.

It wasn't aways like this. My long awaited summer vacation had started well. I went swimming and cycling with Susan and saw my beloved Ryan everyday. Perfect? Well, almost.

Susan and I had been best friends since kindergarten. That first day, I'd been so intimidated by the stern teacher and unfamiliar surroundings that I'd had to go to the toilet-in class. Kids are mean; they all laughed at me. I stood there, mortified and in tears, until Susan came and whispered that she wouldn't let anyone laugh at me. She fought the bullies off. To cut a long story short, I found my soulmate that day; we spent every evening on the phone, every day chattering away in class, and even organised secret birthday parties for each other.

For 14 years, she was the mainspring of my existence; that place I went when I needed encouragement, support, help, courage, love. And companionship. The best friend any girl could ever have. Maybe not.

Another lifetime.

I grimaced as I rose from the cold marble floor. Shuffling to the bathroom, I switched on the light. I presently realised that darkness would be more soothing, so I shut the lid of my commode and sat in the blackness, trying to gather my wits.

Ah, Ryan. Simply put, the true love of my life. He had a crush on me since seventh grade, and tried to woo me(his version) or rather, bug me(my version) by dropping rubber lizards down my neck, tugging my hair and hiding my books. In the ninth grade, we started dating... and life has never been the same since. Suffice it to say that we have had our ups and downs-perhaps more than most, given our temperamental personalities-but our love has always seen us through. 'The couple of the school' is one epithet we've earned in school. Even our teachers have given up and let us hold hands in class without batting an eyelid. My eyes burn as a fresh onslaught of tears begins. I can't bear to think of him in the past tense.

To add to my woes, my academic performance had begun a downward spiral. "This is abominable!" spat my Biology teacher as she handed me my latest test, the latest record of my failures. A straight-A student all my life, I couldn't take the added pressure.

Walking away from the darkness that threatened to engulf me, I reached the kitchen as if by clockwork. Reached inside the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of nachos. Ever since I found out, this has been my nighttime ritual; stuff my face and watch mindless sitcoms on TV, pop a sleeping pill and try to sleep. The last two months have been pure hell. My mind involuntarily flashes back to that fateful day when I walked into Susan's room, clad in my new dress (that I had bought especially for my 3rd year anniversary with Ryan), eager for her approval. I pushed upon that familiar door, and saw them both in bed. I don't have a very clear recollection of what happened next; I'm sure I didn't swoon like a pretty blonde heroine, or shriek, but I'm eternally grateful that the blurred memory. All I recall is the feeling of unreality...and the blinding pain... Yes, cliched as it sounds, my heart shattered into a million smithereens that night, and now nachos and cookies are my best friends.

I was unable to tell anyone; I couldn't bring myself to spell it out, ever. I went to school only sporadically, and sat at home all day, enduring my mum's sarcastic comments about my expanding backside. I gained 20 pounds, and couldn't make myself care. My doctor prescribed sleeping pills; after all, I was 'emotional,' a word that he used instead of 'depressed.'

I sighed and dumped the food on the counter and walked into my room. I dug into the debris and found my journal. Slowly, I began to write. "My heart is broken, lying on the cold, cold floor..."

Shit! I hurled the pen and journal away as sobs racked my body. Why me God? I wanted to scream. I couldn't believe this was happening. How could my boyfriend be sleeping with my best friend when we had both decided to wait? How could I ruin my grades in senior year and screw my college prospects? How could I have kept up my hopeless fifth grade attempts at poetry?

I had had dreams of being a great writer someday. I had filled pages and pages with stories, poems, songs or random thoughts. But now I knew the truth-I was just a failure through and through.

As I sunk into my depression, I glimpsed a pale dawn beyond my window and realised it was my 18th birthday. No one had bothered to call, since I'd cut myself off from my old friends and refused to acknowledge even my family. I could hear someone moving around outside; perhaps my Dad was getting a drink of water.

I made my decision, and the profound happiness bouyed me to my bathroom. I carefully took out my bottle of pills. 'Anti Depressant....Blah Blah....LITHIUM' it said. I smiled in satisfaction and slipped my savior into the pocket of my bathrobe.

I could hear my father calling me. Damn him, I thought as I shuffled into the kitchen. What did he want? A travelling salesman, he was away most of the time. I hadn't even seen him for a month. Not that I especially cared. But once upon a time, he'd meant everything to me. Like most girls, I don't get along with my mother.
"Happy Birthday baby," crooned my Dad and gave me a quick, embarrassed hug. It was so unlike his usual reserve. I saw a handsome, expensive journal lying on the table. He looked at me expectantly, and when I didn't respond, he pressed it into my hands.
"I have an early assignment today, but I'll be back in the evening. Do you need anything? Money? A cake?" I silently shook my head, realising that I hadn't noticed that he was already dressed. With a smile and a wave, he went out the door.

I sat at that table for a long time, and finally opened the journal. On the first page, there was an inscription in my Dad's copperplate print.
"To Casey
Go for your dreams. I believe in you and your immense potential.
I love you very much.
Dad."

My hands started shaking. My Dad, undemonstrative and shy by nature, must have struggled to write those few simple lines. But more importantly, he believed in me and my lost dreams, even when I had stopped believing in them myself. I saw clearly that I had been wallowing in self pity and hiding from reality for too long. It was time to emerge from my cocoon. I hugged the book to my chest and wept for a long time.

A confused girl had metamorphosed into a young lady, who came of age that day.