I sat crying in my bedroom. The cold tears ran around the curves of my face as I tried so hard to forget all the things I had to see. I could feel my mothers pain with each bruise that went across her face. Each one was a dark purple that i can only imagine would look good on a flower, while it looks so odd, distorting the once beautiful parts of my mother. I sat on the hardwood floor of our tiny apartment and held my knees against my body. Why? Why us? I thought about the statistics I read. The words that horrified me. 40%. All gone. All dead. Only a blood red memory to those they knew. We could leave. But he would find us. I remembered that, too. Most people who try to leave, die within the month. I could still remember his words. The ones that shot through me like a sword slicing through a tough samurai. “She doesn’t love you. She loves me.” I didn’t want it to be true. “She doesn’t love you.” I replayed it again and again in my head. She doesn’t love me. She doesn’t love me. It could be true. She won’t leave. “He’s my husband. I can’t just leave my husband. He’ll change, I promise.” Would she leave if she knew? If she knew the things he says to me. If she saw the sword go through me? What would our life be like without him? Without the words? Without the dark purple color that haunted my dreams?
I could see myself sitting on a white patio. Looking at our flower bed with wonder. How did they get such beautiful dark purple petals? I imagine them being the same color as the tiny crevices of the galaxy. The glimmering wonders that escape our minds. The front door opens. The first thing i see is a long white dress with a floral pattern that runs from one end to another in a whirlwind of petals. He never let her wear dresses. She’s smiling. Mom. My mind repeats her name almost sighing with relief. She’s smiling. She hasn’t smiled in 3 years. I hug her as I trace the lines of her face. My fingertips brush her cheek. No make-up. I can remember the days that he would hold her chin up to him. Tell her how ugly she was. How revolting. I knew it wasn’t true. She was amazing. Her long hair flowed down her back. You could tell she had a shower, another privilege she once didn’t possess. We danced in front of our house. I don’t remember the last time we danced. I thought for a moment. My memories slowed as i tried to think of our life. I started forgetting the screams. I forgot the drugs he took every night like clockwork. The hands that tightly grasped her neck. The red hands. With each step, I lost the scar that the sword left. And all i remembered were the flowers.
But that was the past. Mere memories. Memories of dark purple petals and endless galaxies. Nobody knows what violence is, at least not between people. Everyone only knows the violence of countries. Large masses of land with invisible borders. You don’t see women with bruises. No one needs a mask to hide the “love” of those around them. No one needs ugly words that wrap around them at night. No one questions the trust they give. There isn’t a need to. My mother didn’t survive The Violent Times. My step-dad took her life, and I joined the resistance. Within a few short years, my childhood was just a story stuck in the history books. A silent cry splattered onto ugly pages. I held onto my ribbon with satisfaction. My dark purple ribbon. :)
Just Around The Bend
By: Daria Wing
6