I’ve gotten used to coming home to a dark house. Figuratively dark, that is. No matter how brightly the sun is shining through the blinds or how golden the rays look weaving their way through the sage green threads of our living room curtains. Regardless how many lamps and lights are turned on, how high the contrast on the computer monitors and TV screens are, this house is still dark. I see what no one but you and I can splattered all over the floors, all over every surface of this God forsaken fortress. Pleas and desperate cries written across the walls, bleach hiding the scent and erasing the places where blood found shelter on counters and sheets and t-shirts. To anyone else, this house would seem bright and happy, but I know its angry, glum story. I could narrate the movie depicting the life of this house; I know every horrible detail that comes with each crack, dent and tear. I know because my body is what caused them.This house is so dark, especially when you come to find me, especially when hateful words seep out of your mouth and carry the stench of mildewing soul and rotten heart, especially when I tell you that I love you and receive a response that is as deadly as an oleander milkshake. I’m shocked every time you attack me the way a cat attacks a bird just for fun then leaves it for dead, though I know just exactly how long this has been going on.
13 years, 2 months, 3 days and a handful of black and blue hours and minutes.
It’s nothing new, but the sting of each blow, the burn of each word, still shocks me, still makes me nauseous, still panics me. Every time you lift your hand, even if it is to grab a glass out of the cabinet and I’m a room away from you, I flinch. This irreversible fear makes me forget where every ounce of my pride and courage are located. I am terrified of you and it is eating me up inside. I want to be brave but something in me is telling me that I can’t be without leaving my life in your hands to be crushed.
I can’t even begin to explain to you the reaction my body has to turning the door handle and opening our front door. I don’t think I want to. I would rather focus on the pathway from the first tile in the entry way to the last tile right before my bed. I would rather focus on being as quiet as possible, I would rather focus on leaving the facade I mask myself with every morning in the hall closet so you won’t assume I’m gaining courage. I would rather focus on the way my body numbs it’s self right after I puke from crying, right before I fall into a comatose style sleep.
I don’t want to think about what you said or what I said or how many times I told you I loved you and begged you not to hit me anymore. I just want peace.
I’m sorry Daddy; after 17 years, I still haven’t figured out what I’m doing wrong.