Disclosure
There are other subjects that I would rather write about at the moment. But I must follow the trail, write everything in the order it happened in. It has been too long since I last left off. But that night is nevertheless the point at which I must continue.
I do not know if it was right of me to ask Grae to come with me.
The police had by then begun a search of the entire harbour, running lead weights over the bottom and sending down divers. Their attention had moved somewhat away from the silo. They had closed off all of this area of the harbour to anyone but those with a justified reason to enter. So perhaps they did not feel the need to watch over the silo as intently as they did before. This might have been my only chance to look inside, if indeed I found myself able to get in.
It was difficult for me to ask him. It was after all extremely illegal, and potentially dangerous, and I had no wish to expose him to any sort of danger. He strongly feels the same about me, I think, which is most likely why he agreed to come with me, when he discovered that I would not change my mind about going.
He showed up well-prepared and seemed very professional. If I am ever to do something like this again, and I certainly hope I do not have to, then I cannot think of anyone I would rather have there with me than him. I mean that in several ways.
There was a single guard outside, standing a bit away, with his back turned. Grae got us in very quickly. I did my best to be as quiet as he, but I do not think I was amazingly successful. Yet we were not discovered.
As we got in, I turned on the torch that Grae had brought. The inside of the silo looked as one would derive from seeing the outside, the room was completely round. A staircase spiralled upwards, following the wall. There was only one door, the one we had entered though, and if the silo had any windows, they were so high up that we could not see them in the gloom. It was sparsely furnished. But the first thing the light hit, and therefore the first thing I noticed, was a large and old wooden tall-backed chair standing in the middle of the room. I approached it slowly. Running the torch over it revealed a multitude of cuts and odd holes in it. But the stains were the worst part. There was no doubt in my mind about what they consisted of. His blood. And so much of it. Down the chair. On the floor and on the walls. Tracing the trails of it with the cone of light, my eyes reached a table standing at one side of the silo. I walked closer. The tabletop was littered by countless metal objects, neatly marked with little pieces of paper, to proclaim them as evidence. What their uses were, was in some cases a mystery to me, but I had no doubt that their prime purpose was the advancement of pain. A scalpel was lying on the floor, the blade traced with blood. It had been circled in white. I turned away from the appalling tools, followed the light to the other side of the room and the bed. Part of the sheets must also have been taken as evidence, because neat little squares of fabric had been cut out. I did not deceive myself as to what they were evidence of. As we were about to leave, I almost tripped over a metal bucket. Looking down into it, as I regained my balance, I saw that it contained ashes and the remnants of coal.
We managed to sneak out of there undiscovered. At first there was only silence, in my mind and on my lips. As we arrived back at my home, the words, or rather the emotional reaction announced its presence. But it was different from what I think I had expected.
I have never wished such a thing on anyone, not even on him, though if anyone in my life ever deserved it, it was surely him. I did not know how to feel. He was so close to my home all this time. If I had listened for it, I might even have heard him scream. I was not sure how I should feel about the experience he must have gone through in there.
The place itself was largely as I suppose I had somehow expected. What surprised me somewhat were the certain similarities I think I saw. It was mostly the coal that triggered it, but the overall ambience of the place, one of torture and reveling in it to a more than perverted degree, it seemed too familiar. Almost too familiar to be a coincidence. I know that the proposed perpetrator of these atrocities reads or at least read my journal. So he would have known about it all. And if he did, was it then because of me that he took him? Not to avenge me, for I do not see that strange boy to be the type, but nevertheless, did Christian only become interesting to him because I wrote what I did?
The similarities may only have appeared in my mind anyway. I suppose that in essence, there can only be so many ways to torture someone. But even if what I wrote was part of the reason behind it, I cannot accept responsibility for anyone else's actions.
After a while, when I had digested these thoughts, a strange calmness descended upon me. I discussed my feelings on the subject thoroughly with Grae. I appreciated the sentiments that must lie behind his strong feeling of resentment, almost hate towards the person who hurt me. Though I could not help but think that it was not merely because of our friendship that he felt that way. But as we talked about that deep form of animosity, I discovered something about myself. I do not hate him. I do not wish for revenge. I would not allow my mind to have room for such destructive, all-encompassing obsessions. He is not worth it. It may be abnormal. But that is how I felt. I am not saying that I have forgiven him, far from it. But maybe... Maybe some day I can reach that point. And then I shall truly have moved on. If I felt anything in his direction at that particular moment, then it was something close to pity. After all, through all those years, he was the weaker one of us. I still did wonder if I would ever see him again, and how he would act towards me now, if he was out there, if he was alive. But it was not important.
Grae expressed admiration that I was able to not hate. I do not know if I deserve admiration for it, but I was grateful for his support and trust. As I am in all matters.
By now I think he knows he has mine as well.
I do not know if it was right of me to ask Grae to come with me.
The police had by then begun a search of the entire harbour, running lead weights over the bottom and sending down divers. Their attention had moved somewhat away from the silo. They had closed off all of this area of the harbour to anyone but those with a justified reason to enter. So perhaps they did not feel the need to watch over the silo as intently as they did before. This might have been my only chance to look inside, if indeed I found myself able to get in.
It was difficult for me to ask him. It was after all extremely illegal, and potentially dangerous, and I had no wish to expose him to any sort of danger. He strongly feels the same about me, I think, which is most likely why he agreed to come with me, when he discovered that I would not change my mind about going.
He showed up well-prepared and seemed very professional. If I am ever to do something like this again, and I certainly hope I do not have to, then I cannot think of anyone I would rather have there with me than him. I mean that in several ways.
There was a single guard outside, standing a bit away, with his back turned. Grae got us in very quickly. I did my best to be as quiet as he, but I do not think I was amazingly successful. Yet we were not discovered.
As we got in, I turned on the torch that Grae had brought. The inside of the silo looked as one would derive from seeing the outside, the room was completely round. A staircase spiralled upwards, following the wall. There was only one door, the one we had entered though, and if the silo had any windows, they were so high up that we could not see them in the gloom. It was sparsely furnished. But the first thing the light hit, and therefore the first thing I noticed, was a large and old wooden tall-backed chair standing in the middle of the room. I approached it slowly. Running the torch over it revealed a multitude of cuts and odd holes in it. But the stains were the worst part. There was no doubt in my mind about what they consisted of. His blood. And so much of it. Down the chair. On the floor and on the walls. Tracing the trails of it with the cone of light, my eyes reached a table standing at one side of the silo. I walked closer. The tabletop was littered by countless metal objects, neatly marked with little pieces of paper, to proclaim them as evidence. What their uses were, was in some cases a mystery to me, but I had no doubt that their prime purpose was the advancement of pain. A scalpel was lying on the floor, the blade traced with blood. It had been circled in white. I turned away from the appalling tools, followed the light to the other side of the room and the bed. Part of the sheets must also have been taken as evidence, because neat little squares of fabric had been cut out. I did not deceive myself as to what they were evidence of. As we were about to leave, I almost tripped over a metal bucket. Looking down into it, as I regained my balance, I saw that it contained ashes and the remnants of coal.
We managed to sneak out of there undiscovered. At first there was only silence, in my mind and on my lips. As we arrived back at my home, the words, or rather the emotional reaction announced its presence. But it was different from what I think I had expected.
I have never wished such a thing on anyone, not even on him, though if anyone in my life ever deserved it, it was surely him. I did not know how to feel. He was so close to my home all this time. If I had listened for it, I might even have heard him scream. I was not sure how I should feel about the experience he must have gone through in there.
The place itself was largely as I suppose I had somehow expected. What surprised me somewhat were the certain similarities I think I saw. It was mostly the coal that triggered it, but the overall ambience of the place, one of torture and reveling in it to a more than perverted degree, it seemed too familiar. Almost too familiar to be a coincidence. I know that the proposed perpetrator of these atrocities reads or at least read my journal. So he would have known about it all. And if he did, was it then because of me that he took him? Not to avenge me, for I do not see that strange boy to be the type, but nevertheless, did Christian only become interesting to him because I wrote what I did?
The similarities may only have appeared in my mind anyway. I suppose that in essence, there can only be so many ways to torture someone. But even if what I wrote was part of the reason behind it, I cannot accept responsibility for anyone else's actions.
After a while, when I had digested these thoughts, a strange calmness descended upon me. I discussed my feelings on the subject thoroughly with Grae. I appreciated the sentiments that must lie behind his strong feeling of resentment, almost hate towards the person who hurt me. Though I could not help but think that it was not merely because of our friendship that he felt that way. But as we talked about that deep form of animosity, I discovered something about myself. I do not hate him. I do not wish for revenge. I would not allow my mind to have room for such destructive, all-encompassing obsessions. He is not worth it. It may be abnormal. But that is how I felt. I am not saying that I have forgiven him, far from it. But maybe... Maybe some day I can reach that point. And then I shall truly have moved on. If I felt anything in his direction at that particular moment, then it was something close to pity. After all, through all those years, he was the weaker one of us. I still did wonder if I would ever see him again, and how he would act towards me now, if he was out there, if he was alive. But it was not important.
Grae expressed admiration that I was able to not hate. I do not know if I deserve admiration for it, but I was grateful for his support and trust. As I am in all matters.
By now I think he knows he has mine as well.