Its Perfidious Ink

Everyone has a story. An inherent past. Whether it’s messy, modelesque, chaotic, sparkling or painful, it's the beautiful collaboration of how one came to be. One thing we all have in common is that each one of our stories began with pages cemented in someone else’s hand-writing, written in permanent ink. Our Genesis was created without our consent. Stained prologues that you can’t abscond from and ignorantly deem obsolete. It will subconsciously dictate haunting works if you can’t finally ascertain all of its truths. Hiding from your inception will only overwhelm you into a self-destructing abyss. These pages can’t be destroyed. These detailed recollections can’t be forgotten. You can’t erase your past.

She stood there frozen. Her gaze seemed entranced by a lone marigold; however her thoughts didn’t allow her to acknowledge her only friend. The blowing wind couldn’t sway her resolve; only kissed her with clarity. Freedom was finally just a step away. Yet, her thoughts were still stuck on how she had gotten here.. She closed her eyes to replay her story for the last time.

Her beginning took place in a beautiful white, two story house in the country. Black shutters adorned the windows. An endless green yard full of matured trees would blow in the soft summer breeze. So ideal from the outside; picturesque. Such a deceiving view; tears shed in so many rooms, nowhere to escape, no solace or reprieve. Passerbys would never know of the antagonistic pain that lived there; perverse betrayal painted on its walls. Haunted by a little girl, resembling a porcelain doll, maybe 3 years old, with her face partially covered in pieces of tangled, long black hair, wet from her tears. She was usually clothed in girly outfits, red and white with matching little red tights, almost the same color as her pouty lips. She didn’t prance around with laughter, playing games, like most girls her age. The games she learned left her trembling with fear. Her adopted dad like playing games. His favorite one was his special version of hide and seek. Of course, she was the one always frantically hiding. Fearfully, peering from underneath the white, formal dining room tablecloth, hesitantly peeking out from behind the long, green couch in the living room, or completely hidden in the small coat closet, praying that her heavy breathing or that the pounding of her heart wouldn’t reveal her location. The thickness of the multi-colored green shag carpet gave her tiny hands something to cling to, as she held her breath, every time he’d call out her name, sometimes in desperation, but mostly in jest because, after all, he always won. She quietly wiped away her hair from her horrified face, her clenched little fists ready to fight, trying to be brave through the tears. His heavy footsteps announced that the search for her had come to an end. He’d won again. Then thankfully, only quiet sheets of blackness embraced her through the terror.

Shattered pieces of her blood-stained innocence were buried throughout that house. Her screams echoed throughout each room, mocking her. The house with the damp, smelly basement adorned with that lone, old, dirty couch in one section, hidden behind a wall. Placed in that dark corner, dimming its multi-colored fabric. So dark that the creeping shadows wouldn’t have even existed on the walls, had it not been for that tiny rectangle-shaped little window nearby, the bright blue sky just out of her reach, taunting her. Her despairing eyes wandered to that window every time she heard him unzip his pants and maneuver out of his jeans. Then thankfully, only quiet sheets of blackness filled that basement, as her mind escaped outside that window. She was prancing around under the bright blue sky, being warmly embraced by the sun. Holding a single marigold, freshly picked, in her dirt-ridden hand. Crying when she felt herself being drug back down into the shadows, as he wiped down her wet legs and bottom. Time and time again, she pranced around, outside that window, soaking up the sun under that bright blue sky, picking marigolds.

So many parts of her died throughout that house, especially when her adopted mom began working the night shift. Sickened as she noted the dismal, yellow-orange light from the lamp in the corner of their bedroom, mom and dad’s ...never bright enough to cast out those dark shadows creeping on the wall. One of the first times she’d wondered what death was like. The little porcelain doll had grown a little in this room, maybe 8 years old. It always reeked of hot sweat, as he’d lead her to the bed. He was always in white briefs and she was only covered in a shirt by the time they reached their destination. He’d always lie down first, with her on top of him, facing his sticky chest She’d briefly remember being coerced to touch something hard and wet and hairy...then thankfully, again, only quiet sheets of blackness filled the bedroom. She was prancing around under the bright blue sky, being warmly embraced by the sun. Holding a single marigold, freshly picked, in her dirt-ridden hand. Crying as reality snatched her back to the bedroom, just in time to feel him wiping down her wet, naked body, his fingers always lingering, as did the piercing pains. Time and time again. Disgusted, that the light was never bright enough to dispel the creeping shadows on his wall.

Then they moved away from that beautiful white, two story house in the country. The little porcelain doll had grown again, maybe around 14 years old. And this new house was full of windows with sunlight pouring in through each one. A full view of the bright, blue sky. This house, where a basement couldn’t be found, didn’t leave the girl paralyzed with fear from the dark, with it’s creeping shadows forecasting what would come. She was no longer a little girl. This new girl embraced only contempt for herself and everyone around her. Unfortunately, the girl’s self-loathing has blossomed long before the move. A terrorizing tag team of main events was the new guessing game here. But in this house, absent of the shattered pieces of her blood-stained innocence; the girl no longer trembled in fear. No burials had commenced here. She wasn’t tripping over pieces of herself. Ding. Ding. The main event began, time and time again. Tears were absent from the girl’s black eyes, as each of their blows and kicks intensified. As much as he’d bellow for the girl to cry, while she abetted him, watching, and always there to remove the red phone from the girl's room after they were done. No calls for help were allowed. Those were the rules. She was alone, silently pleading to God for a reprieve. With every whip of the belt on her skin, with each punch that left a mark, or with every glass thrown at her across the room, the girl didn’t cringe or hide away. When he attempted to suffocate the girl with a pair of her own jeans, time and time again, she watched and then dutifully, removed that red phone from the girl’s room. Not one cry for help. Not one tear was shed. She was alone; God continued to ignore her pleas for reprieve. The girl’s last breath wasn’t going to be by the hands of her adopted father and mother. Unfortunately, it had never just been at the hands of her parents, but several others proved, as well, that she was only worthless, never good enough. She was helpless against their power to persecute her. Always unwanted. Always tormented. Deservingly so. She recognized this each time she looked into the mirror, but only now could she embrace her truths. She’d never be enough. She’d never be anything. God had abandoned her the day she was born. No solace for the weak, the worthless. He only desecrated her significance, as they had all done, time and time again. She had always been alone, silently pleading…all for nothing.

The girl climbed to the highest peak, with hand-written pages of shame, guilt, and apologies for not being good enough. She wished she could just drown in the sea of its perfidious ink. She couldn’t erase her past, pages cemented in someone else’s hand-writing. But she could dictate the end to these haunting works. Just one more step. Unaware of the tears adorning her face, peacefully, she leapt. Gracefully, she flew. Last glimpses of creeping shadows on the wall, naked skin; grateful for that lone marigold under the bright, blue sky. Her only friend. Smiling, she welcomed the quiet sheets of blackness…her endless reprieve.