“The sound of muffled screams, punches thrown and absorbed by soft muscles, and slapping and banging of doors right at the other room brings about another terror inside of me. Hearing it wakes my limits, my old fear. In this summer night, I shivered, but not of cold. And nothing’s left but myself in the darkness of the night. The darkness… the darkness amplifies the heavy feeling.”
- Excerpt of March 21, 2011
In that gloomy, scary night, I was the little scared girl once again. As I lay down on my thin foamed cot, with a used disassembled carton box underneath it to protect my back from the slightly cold floor, moonlight splashed across the room from outside the window as I opened my eyes to yet another sad recollections of the past. The familiarity, the imagery, the memory flicked across my mind’s eye.
It felt like stumbling upon a person you used to know at the street, but you don’t want to admit that you knew them. So, you avert your eyes and walk away.
I remembered that there were voices from another room, man and woman, arguing. But it’s not something I would hear from the days of long ago. What frightened me was the silence that they left after the last words were spoken. It was something new to me.
I was that person who’d wait for the bell to break the silence and come scurrying to cover thyself. I was afraid, I always was. But I never said the words. They knew, but the man kept on doing it for years. It was something that would put a mark on a part of you.
It’s like a scab; when you accidentally scratch on its surface, it bleeds.
Whenever I remember the memories of physical violence and emotional pain, I write it. I write it until my mind has diverted into another realm of idea. It’s how I kill the memory until I no longer know how it feels like to be watching and not being able to do anything.
Then I remember it again, for so long, I would remember it. Something or someone somewhere would trigger it, hence I repeat the process. Until the memory felt like a dull space in my head that used to fill an important information.
What’s more saddening is: as I would recall, I get number and number, ’til I no longer feel anything for the person I used to be. It felt like treachery or injustice to the old me…a prison.
© 2015 Niobe Falls