“We spoke with the officer and confirmed the incident..” by that point I was back to staring at the sterile white of the wall in front of me. I don’t know if I’m blinking; I don’t know if I’m even breathing. Mom keeps glancing at me with a concerned expression as the doctor drones on about any past injuries. My eyes slide to the poster above the trash can, the little girl smiles at me with a condescending air as I hear the wail of an ambulance echo distantly in the back of my head. Mom’s looking at me again, her eyes calculating whether I’m in pain or not. I cradle my arm closer and return to the wall. The world outside is just an insistent whirring, like a mosquito that I can’t locate. It’s like I have cotton balls filling me, clogging my ears and stuffing my throat, my senses are gone and I’m stuck inside myself. The only clear sound is the screaming inside, why is it inside? What did I do to get punished like this? Cold hands are moving and prodding at me again, assessing the damage. But they’ll never find the pain will they? They’ll never make it go away, because they can’t. They can’t…
***
Don’t say anything, just keep your mouth shut and he might go away.
The handle to the dresser is stabbing into my rib cage and my palm is bleeding. My fist unclenches as I stuff my hands into my hoodie. Why am I here? Nothing good will come of this, it never does.. His beady, cold eyes bore into me, emotionless. I grind my teeth as the words assault me, one after the other. Filled with hatred and disgust, they envelope me and swirl behind my eyes, imprinting on the lids, always there to remind me. His eyes, the eyes of the devil, narrow as his lips curl into a sneer. He looks malicious and terrifying. “You’re a waste of life, can’t you see? You are nothing and everybody around you knows it.”
Don’t. Talk. He likes it when you talk, don’t give him that.
“No one cares about you, you’re a worthless piece of trash, just like your mother.” My lip stings and I realize I’ve bitten into it. “What, you don’t feel like talking? I thought you wanted to be treated like an adult. This little silent act of yours isn’t very mature.” The anger in his voice fills the small room but no sound escapes me, not even a breath. I barely flinch as he shoots up and slams his fist against the wall, the sound reverberating up my spin and curling around my stomach, tightening. As he stalks out the door my gasping breaths finally fill the empty room. My chest is both heaving and crushing into itself, making the air stick in my throat, burning me from the inside. His words are swirling around my head, latching onto my insecurities.
He’s wrong. You know he is. People love you, mom loves you.
I try to calm myself; I try to breath, but my body starts to go numb and my head feels light.
What if he’s not? Everyone who claims to love you has left, they all left you, they all ignored you. Only your mom stayed, you have one person that truly loves you. What’s wrong with you?
I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes, squeezing them tight until all I see is black. My body is shaking as I feel the water soak my face.
He’s wrong..right?
***
The stares are worse than we originally predicted. My classmates stop mentioning it once they see the hesitation in my eyes, the old ladies at the cafe give me pitying glances and pats on the hand. They all watch me intently, eyes focused on the suffocating entrapment along my arm. They all ask the same questions:“What happened? Are you okay?” How am I supposed to answer that? No one wants to hear the truth, they don’t care to hear the pain I experienced or the always present procession of words in my head. All they want is the satisfaction of having asked. The truth? He ruined me. My constant doubts and self hatred, my inability to love who I am or notice my worth, let alone believe I’m able to be loved, that I deserve it. The trust issues that cause my nerves to jump when someone gets too close, and the steel formed around my heart, preventing further pain. He damaged me, damaged me beyond my bones. He undid everything I ever learned and believed about loving myself. Because of him, my eyes flitter and scan a room, unable to maintain a constant point; because of him, I burrow into myself, hoping to go unnoticed, but praying to be seen. He hurt me, so much more than the world sees. And what’s sad? It’s not hard. Convincing them all that I’m okay is as easy as breathing. All I have to do is quirk my lips, widen my eyes, and paint on a happy expression when confronted and they can can feel better about themselves.
It’s just so easy isn’t it?
***
I don’t know weather to freeze or to fight back. My body is rigid, yet so easily movable. I feel like a rag doll getting thrown across a room, the world around me spinning. I know it seems worse than it is. I’m probably just overreacting, huh? But I guess that’s just what the mind does, it intensifies the most terrifying moments of your life, it makes your heart pound against your chest and your breath shallow. The corner of the dresser is digging into my back, the sharp wood cutting into my spine. One arm feels like it’s getting crushed, while the other uselessly tries to fight back pushing harder and harder against his chest. But he’s unmovable, a solid wall against me. All my weight is pushing into him as my mind tells me to keep trying, to not let him hurt me again. His hand tightens around my wrist and my vision sparks, pain shooting through the bone. With silent tears I glance up into his face.
Oh God.
His eyes have no soul, they’re devoid of life, like a killer’s. Terror fills me, seeping into my body, covering it like a blanket. Everything in me is screaming for help, for him to stop. The only tangible thought Ican form is that this man is capable of killing.
And oh God, oh God. Why is nobody coming in here? Why do they let him do this? They’re supposed to be my family…
The tears gush out, hot and thick, as a pained whimper escapes my lips. He smirks down at me, squeezes tighter, then lets go. “Maybe next time you’ll speak when I say so.” His voice scrapes along my ears like ice, then he’s gone. My body can’t take anymore and I collapse onto the floor, cradling my hurt arm. The sobs have stopped, the tears continuing their path down my cheeks. My eyes trace the crack along the ceiling, trailing along the webbing, branching off.
One night, then I’m home.
I’ve never written a non-linear narrative before so that was a little stressful. When you add that to the fact that the paper is really personal, one could see how it was difficult to write. I was told to do something that drew on my emotions and this was the most apparent memory I could think of. If I rewrote it I think I could clarify who the man is, although I like leaving it vague, and I’d try and clarify time frames I suppose.
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