nachtspiegel
August 30th, 2009, 01:25 AM
(This reminisces on something that happened in my childhood.)
I remember when you found me behind the shed. We both had black eyes. I didn't have a shirt on, and you told me that you had to crawl out through the window at the top of the crawl space. Even though it was the middle of December, the chill wasn't as bad as it normally was. I knew that yours would be coming to find you soon, but I knew that no one would come looking for me. Either way, we had to go.
I remember the time that you sent him to knock on my window to tell me that you were in trouble. I snuck out and ran from tree to tree: if they saw me, I'd be in trouble, but if I didn't get to you soon, you might be in more trouble than anyone could fix.
I remember the time that I was running down the alley, trying to get my nose to stop bleeding. I found you curled over behind a bush with blood pouring out of your mouth. I took my shirt off and tried to hold your lip together. It needed stitches because of the switches.
I remember the time that I cut school and tried to sneak to your house to see which of your many bruises needed mending, but you weren't there anymore. I remember how I told you every day that we were going to get away, but the question was always when and who first. For the first time in a week, you had gone to school, and for the first time ever, someone finally noticed.
In the years since, I still remember sleeping behind the bush in the alley the block over from us because we didn't want anything else getting knocked out of place. I remember the time that we hid in the shed for six hours afraid to breathe and afraid to move. I also remember the time that they told me that you might be coming back: my heart skipped for the sight of you and sank at the thought of seeing you bleed one more time.
---
I didn't write this for the linguistics or the artistic side of it. It's an unsent letter to a friend that I grew up with. We were both victims of child abuse. One day, I went to find her, afraid that her step-father had beaten her to death the night before only to find out that social services finally removed her from the home. I haven't talked to her in five years, but I hope that I'll find her again one day and find out what became of her.
The end.
(Oh, and if you're wondering why it's called 'Poisoned,' it's because those things happened to us because of the substances that her stepfather and my father always lived around.)
I remember when you found me behind the shed. We both had black eyes. I didn't have a shirt on, and you told me that you had to crawl out through the window at the top of the crawl space. Even though it was the middle of December, the chill wasn't as bad as it normally was. I knew that yours would be coming to find you soon, but I knew that no one would come looking for me. Either way, we had to go.
I remember the time that you sent him to knock on my window to tell me that you were in trouble. I snuck out and ran from tree to tree: if they saw me, I'd be in trouble, but if I didn't get to you soon, you might be in more trouble than anyone could fix.
I remember the time that I was running down the alley, trying to get my nose to stop bleeding. I found you curled over behind a bush with blood pouring out of your mouth. I took my shirt off and tried to hold your lip together. It needed stitches because of the switches.
I remember the time that I cut school and tried to sneak to your house to see which of your many bruises needed mending, but you weren't there anymore. I remember how I told you every day that we were going to get away, but the question was always when and who first. For the first time in a week, you had gone to school, and for the first time ever, someone finally noticed.
In the years since, I still remember sleeping behind the bush in the alley the block over from us because we didn't want anything else getting knocked out of place. I remember the time that we hid in the shed for six hours afraid to breathe and afraid to move. I also remember the time that they told me that you might be coming back: my heart skipped for the sight of you and sank at the thought of seeing you bleed one more time.
---
I didn't write this for the linguistics or the artistic side of it. It's an unsent letter to a friend that I grew up with. We were both victims of child abuse. One day, I went to find her, afraid that her step-father had beaten her to death the night before only to find out that social services finally removed her from the home. I haven't talked to her in five years, but I hope that I'll find her again one day and find out what became of her.
The end.
(Oh, and if you're wondering why it's called 'Poisoned,' it's because those things happened to us because of the substances that her stepfather and my father always lived around.)