Trauma With Benefits

You Have the Power

“There’s a reason this is permanent,” I said, jutting my bracelet tattoo toward the bright-eyed crowd, pausing long enough for the cameras to catch the view.

I looked down at the words curved around my wrist in delicate script:

“You have the power to choose."

I continued, “My father tied me by this wrist so many times that it left an imprint I could never get rid of. A mark that gave me shame. Until one day, I decided... no more. I rebranded the pain into hope. As a symbol, for me—and all of you," I softly sobbed for effect, "that…you…have...the...power!” I emphasized, pointing to the faces staring back at me.

As I made my way to my VIP table, cheers rocked my soul. Success. I had just changed lives. I just knew that after all that I had been through, things would pay off for me. They were lucky I was here. Tiny screens recorded me everywhere, broadcasting that I had made it to the top (well, mostly). I signed so many autographs that day that my hands hurt, but I persevered. Especially to see my name on all those books. Yet, something was still off. Something I pushed aside.

Interview

I woke up the next morning to 5 missed calls and 14 messages. Typical.

OK, I'm sorry. I know I'm a piece of shit but please don't do this.

Nat, seriously, I would've never done anything if I didn't think you were O.K. with it.

Please pick up.

"Eh, let him feel the burn," I muttered. I didn't need anyone. I had another big day, and nothing could go wrong.

The news studio was smaller than I had imagined it. I had already prepared for all of the questions they were going to ask me. The greetings. The strategic tear. The controlled laughter.

“So, Natalie,” the boring host began, “your memoir, The Power to Choose Not to Burn, is making quite the stir on social media. What inspired you to open up about your childhood now?”

I looked up into the sky, paused, and then back at the camera. "You know, Chance, I just always knew there was something inside of me wanting to break out. There's a part in the book that explains the time that my parents actually burned me, on page 47, then looked me in the eyes and whispered, 'You will never amount to anything.' In which you know what I did, Chance?"

Chance was hooked.

"At only 6 years old, I stood up, burns and all, I said 'watch me,' because I knew I was born to be a voice for change."

Got 'em.

The rest of the interview went about how I had imagined. I could see my social media count rising. Ads, fans, and more missed calls. I went straight to my publisher’s voicemail.

"Get to your parents, NOW."

Back Home Again

My mom shook her head with tears falling down her swollen eyes. How dramatic.

"Telling people your dad was some sort of monster," she sobbed.

“He was,” I said simply, peeking from under my sunshades as if I were on my way to a vacation (instead of this hell hole). "You were just too busy worshipping his paycheck to notice."

And yet, still no daddy dearest in sight. Probably risking a heart attack to run to some more important meeting.

"We never touched you," she said, shaking like her body was being taken over.

"Oh really?! Well," I shrugged, "maybe you did...to me."

My cousin, Ben, who was there for absolutely no reason at all, interrupted.

"Bullshit, Nat! I grew up with you. I saw everything!"

I took a breath in. "You know, trauma affects memory, Ben. Some people actually repress what actually happened. Especially, men."

"I swear, Nat. Your parents are not going down for this. Everyone at church is basically turning their backs on all the rest of us because of your lies," my cousin, Ben, threatened me.

I had to stand up for myself. "Oh my God, Ben! Just because you're mad that I never accepted your inappropriate advances towards me doesn't mean to take it out on me just because you want money!"

This is exactly why I had to cut ties from my toxic family.

WHY

They're old! They don’t know what they are talking about. They'd rather I be poor than to be selling books. To be miserable like them!

"Where is he anyway!" I yelled. "Too scared to come out?!" If he came out raging, that would show everyone how right I was.

I stormed upstairs, throwing each door open. My room was exactly how I had left it. Ew. The N'Sync posters on the wall. The salt rock lamp next to my collection of Little Ponies. They never could let me go. I yanked out my phone to take a picture of the closet he used to lock me into.

Except… there was no lock. Never had been.

I frowned. It wouldn’t look right without it. Now, I'd have to come back with a lock. Damn it.

There had to be something in here I could use...

I opened the door. Inside were some old trolls, tea sets, and a box marked “9th Grade Recital.”

Photos. Smiling ones. Me. Him. Smiling.

A note in his handwriting:

"Natalie, I’m proud of you. Keep shining. Love, Dad.”

Yeah, he wrote it, big deal. He was never there. Physically there! Work always came first. He wanted a son. Not a daughter. Isn't that trauma enough?!

"WHY?!" I screamed, throwing the album against the wall.

This is exactly why I had to leave this place and never come back.

What Mattered

None of it mattered.

Not what actually happened. Not who said what or where the truth ended and the story began.

What mattered was how the room lived for me when I had first said the words, "my dad hit me."

When the comments spilled in:

"You're so strong."

"How do you do it?"

"I wish I could be more like you."

That is what mattered.

That traumatized girl in the darkness.

Beaten.

Locked up.

Chained.

Burned.

Neglected.

Unloved.

That was the version of Natalie Chestminster that was going to live on... even though she never truly existed.

-The End-

This story is fiction & was only done for Vocal's "You Were Never Really Here" challenge. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events, public figures or influencers, etc. is purely coincidental.