Dear Patrick
Fifty-Four
I woke up thinking I was dead. I woke up to a big ol' Christmas tree with a whole bunch of presents. Everyone I loved minus my mom was there. And everybody was wearing those really ugly Christmas sweaters. Even Pat. It was all too happy to be real. I haven't known happiness in a long time so it was a feeling I was alien to. I felt kind of scared, I couldn't remember what it was that I had to be scared of.
Patrick was wrapping his finger with a bandage. He had like seven papercuts on his fingers. He sucks at wrapping presents. Toews sat on the couch, watching the Cubs game with Julia in his arms. The kitchen was full of food, all covered in foil and waiting to be devoured. What the fuck is this, ThanksChristmas? I hate when I don't know what's going on. So I kicked off the blanket draped over my legs and stared at my thighs.
Holy shitballs. What the hell are all these scars doing all over my skin? That's when it all clicked. And for the slightest moment, I felt reassured because I'd finally remembered. The fear of being taken again began to settle in as I played flashbacks over and over in my head. It'd only been seconds since I'd kicked off the blanket but I was already working up a sweat. I felt my face red and a chill down my back as I recalled intricate details. And I realized I wanted that happiness back- even if it meant I wouldn't be able to remember everything before. I didn't want to be scared but I couldn't figure out if false happiness was scarier. Every time I steered away from the memory of punches coming straight at me, a more vivid one of a kick to the gut took its place.
I started feeling pain where pain wasn't. And I started to cry softly. And then when I remember the way I was played with and forced to watch, I forced my eyes close and bit my tongue. Whatever this Christmas thing was, I didn't want to mess it up. I eventually fell asleep. But my dreams served as no means of escape. The hurt was still there, in the back of my psyche, always there to haunt me right when I think I'm okay again.
It was like a movie, rewatching the rape and the blood and the fists to the face and the tears in my clothes that I'd worn for too long. Feeling again my hair being pulled and my skin being played around with as if it were Play-Doh. And the laughs and the humiliation. And so I started screaming but it was one of those dreams where you keep screaming and screaming but no matter how hard you try forcing the breath out of your lungs, the voice gets stuck somewhere in your throat. But I kept screaming. Silent screaming is the scariest.
And I felt like I was shaking; it reminded me of the way they used to shake me so violently and not stop until my dizziness put me into a state of unconsciousness. When I opened my eyes, I stared at a pair of bright blue eyes. They were filled with concern, fear. The blonde stopped shaking but I didn't stop screaming. The blonde started talking to me. He wrapped me up in his arms and he hugged me until the my blood pressure lowered and my hands stopped shaking. He rested his chin atop my head and held me really tight.
Who the hell was this guy?
Patrick was wrapping his finger with a bandage. He had like seven papercuts on his fingers. He sucks at wrapping presents. Toews sat on the couch, watching the Cubs game with Julia in his arms. The kitchen was full of food, all covered in foil and waiting to be devoured. What the fuck is this, ThanksChristmas? I hate when I don't know what's going on. So I kicked off the blanket draped over my legs and stared at my thighs.
Holy shitballs. What the hell are all these scars doing all over my skin? That's when it all clicked. And for the slightest moment, I felt reassured because I'd finally remembered. The fear of being taken again began to settle in as I played flashbacks over and over in my head. It'd only been seconds since I'd kicked off the blanket but I was already working up a sweat. I felt my face red and a chill down my back as I recalled intricate details. And I realized I wanted that happiness back- even if it meant I wouldn't be able to remember everything before. I didn't want to be scared but I couldn't figure out if false happiness was scarier. Every time I steered away from the memory of punches coming straight at me, a more vivid one of a kick to the gut took its place.
I started feeling pain where pain wasn't. And I started to cry softly. And then when I remember the way I was played with and forced to watch, I forced my eyes close and bit my tongue. Whatever this Christmas thing was, I didn't want to mess it up. I eventually fell asleep. But my dreams served as no means of escape. The hurt was still there, in the back of my psyche, always there to haunt me right when I think I'm okay again.
It was like a movie, rewatching the rape and the blood and the fists to the face and the tears in my clothes that I'd worn for too long. Feeling again my hair being pulled and my skin being played around with as if it were Play-Doh. And the laughs and the humiliation. And so I started screaming but it was one of those dreams where you keep screaming and screaming but no matter how hard you try forcing the breath out of your lungs, the voice gets stuck somewhere in your throat. But I kept screaming. Silent screaming is the scariest.
And I felt like I was shaking; it reminded me of the way they used to shake me so violently and not stop until my dizziness put me into a state of unconsciousness. When I opened my eyes, I stared at a pair of bright blue eyes. They were filled with concern, fear. The blonde stopped shaking but I didn't stop screaming. The blonde started talking to me. He wrapped me up in his arms and he hugged me until the my blood pressure lowered and my hands stopped shaking. He rested his chin atop my head and held me really tight.
Who the hell was this guy?
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2/12/15