I Remember
I remember everything.
It starts the first night he entered my bedroom at the boarding school. I remember all the details. Everything he did to me, he did to my mind as well as my body.
Few people understand how I feel. Hell, I couldn’t understand how I felt. The pain, the guilt barely let me live. I was so young. Something told me it was wrong, but at the same time my mind, the education I was receiving, told me it was all my fault. And I kept thinking so forever.
That’s why I started. One night I had drunk too much. That was not unusual. I liked the lull liquor gave me, the feeling of forgetfulness it provided, if only for a few hours. When I came to, I had my first ink.
A nail. At least it was something I could relate to. I felt the sting on my skin, and it was good. It gave me a measure of redemption. I know it sounds mad. I think I was mad then.
After that, I got a new tattoo for each of my memories. I filled my skin with years of them, all souvenirs of a ruined childhood. And I felt vindication with every single one. Again, a mad thought. It just felt right. All that pain, bearable pain, felt right.
It felt good.
There was another nail in my coffin: the shame added to the guilt. It made me feel so lonely. I realized I was not alone when I learned about other people like me in the news. They appeared more and more often. I made some research and found a group.
It took me months to join.
For them I’m grateful.
They taught me to live. They taught me forgiveness. Don’t get me wrong: they knew what was going on through my mind, and they taught me how to forgive myself, something I didn’t know I needed. Once it was out there, in the open, I couldn’t step back.
I decided to help others in turn. I also took a decision: I’d earn my tats now. A new one for each person I could help.
My visits to the parlour were not so frequent, but they kept coming. Each new ink was now a personal triumph. And they also felt good. The pain had a different meaning.
And then all of it changed.
I have an address for you, one of my wards told me. She had some connections, and she had found him.
Him.
I told her the truth: I didn’t know what to do. She left me a folded paper. I could open it or throw it away.
I put it in my pocket and went to the parlour. I picked one design book at random, and chose one design without looking.
The Eye of Horus. An all-seeing eye. A portent.
I unfolded the paper and took a bus.
The address took me to a home for the elderly. I lied to the reception lady, telling her I had been abroad and just came back to find my relative was living there now. She smiled and told me to wait, and then a nurse walked me to a room.
He was in his bed, barely half the man he had once been. He was so ill they didn’t know how long he’d still have. And he was a dotard now. He didn’t remember anything. Had he been faking it, I would have noticed.
All I could do was weep in rage and desperation. I hadn’t been sure what I was going to say to him, but now it really didn’t matter, because he couldn’t understand me.
The door opened, and a young woman came in. His daughter, asking me who I was.
A daughter. The bastard had even had a daughter.
I made my excuses and left, not bothering to listen to the voices behind me that kept questioning me.
That night, I got a new tattoo.
A wolf howling to the moon.
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This is my accompanying entry for the Weekly Writing Exercise: April 24–30, 2017 at the Writer’s Discussion Group on Google+. I am responsible for creating the prompts for the Exercise, so I don’t take part, but I still like to write a story each week.
I don’t recall ever having touched the topic of abuse victims. I hope I’ve been respectful.
