I am the kind of person who sleeps very well, without the waking up in the middle of the night, unless something is worrying me. I don’t get insomnia, as worried people usually do, I just dream. And if I wake up after a dream, I try to write a couple of words about it so I won’t forget.
I can’t remember if it was last Thursday or Friday when I was suddenly awake of my sleep because of a strange dream. I was in the middle of what seemed to be a battlefield and around me I just could see lifeless bodies. I was looking for someone, even though I didn’t know who that person was. When less expected, I heard the voice of a woman. At first I couldn’t see her but then she come straight to me through the morning fog. I got scared of her ghostly figure under the dim light of the raising day.
She reached me pretty fast and touched my arms with her hands. A warm feeling involved me at once as I concluded that if she was a ghost she had to be a very friendly one. She talked to me with a decisive tone of voice: “Number three!” she said.
After saying those two synthetic words, she vanished the same way she had appeared. “What do you mean?” I asked to the looming form. But she wasn’t there any longer and I felt the deep emptiness of her absence. “Please! Please!” I cried for her.
That’s when I heard the choir formed by the voices of the dead corpses spread across the field repeating: “Number three! Number three!”
You may guess how scared I was afterwards. I thought about the dream. I could see a clear message in it and it wasn’t a difficult one. It had to do with number three and death.
Usually I don’t think a lot about dreams, yet this one kept coming to my mind: “Number three? Am I number three to someone?” this was my first idea and I had good reasons to believe in it. “So what?” I concluded. “If I am number three to someone, that someone might be number thirty to me! Who cares?”
It was after that first idea that I remembered a disturbing and somehow almost forgotten fact: I had three friends committing suicide in three different stages of my own life.
When I was in my teens, I befriended two sisters who were very close of one another. I remember that their father owned a family restaurant and I also recall a camping trip with both of them. One day, shortly after the camping, the eldest sister decided to use a belt belonging to the youngest to go out on a date. She had eighteen by then. When she arrived from the street, very happy as she must have been, her younger sister, who perhaps felt jealousy, started an endless and pointless discussion. Everything seemed to go around the belt the eldest sister had used without permission. Desperate with all the talk, the eldest sister closed herself in the bathroom and took twenty pills of quinine. In the middle of the night she knocked at her younger sister door and asked for her help. She was rushed to the hospital in vain.
In my twenties, another young friend committed suicide due to after childbirth stress. As far as I can recall, she cut her wrists and drowned herself in her swimming pool. At that time nobody talked about that kind of stress that is now common knowledge and treatable. She was considered a lunatic and her memory wasn’t respected during long time for what she had done: leaving her husband alone with a little baby girl!
My third friend tempted by the sad act of suicide was a TV journalist. She had studied with me and I knew that she was insecure of herself and a little moody, especially towards her own family. I remember the way she reacted to boyfriends’ rejection. She usually was devastated, she could only surpass that kind of situation with a lot of help and friendship. I guess she had some kind of problem she couldn’t overcome and decided to use a rope to put an end to her days.
After remembering the three suicide cases, I was inclined to conclude that my dream had something to do with them. It was more a feeling than certitude until I heard what had happened during the same weekend on the sands of Bazaruto.
To be continued…