I told her she should have an abortion. No-not Missie.
She insisted on flaunting it in front of Mamma,
revelling in her own mother’s humiliation. If I’d been
Mamma I’d have killed Missie a long time ago.
But Mamma never showed her hurt. She’s
different from the Mamma she once was. Years of
pain and abuse have diminished her, bled her spirit dry.
She may have been freed from the hospital after her
breakdown, but she’ll never be free from her
tormented memories. A part of her has been claimed
by these memories. Lost to us, she resides in alien
territory, safe now from the clutches of hurt and fear,
but removed also from the healing hands of love. Our
love, Zack’s and mine, isn’t strong enough to save her.
Once again the love I offer, like a flawed jewel, is
worthless.
The thought of Missie’s baby unleashed a
savage anger in me. I didn’t want to think about that
baby coming into the world, all tiny, perfect and
innocent. I didn’t want to think about its soft new skin,
unblemished by the bruises, burns and scars that taint
my own body. The scars that are a perpetual reminder
of my terror and my shame.
Shame and fear, those vigilant twins of misery,
are my constant companions. I was secretly afraid that
Father might not hate this new child; that he might
even be fond of it, that he might not hurt it like he
hurt Zack and me. That would be an agony more than
I could bear. I’d do anything to prevent Missie and her
bastard child from gleaning an ounce of happiness
from this existence.
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