Bloodied Hands of Abuse Survival

You were supposed to be my protector

I don’t know if I yell that at God or my father. Neither will hear me.

Both are too far away.

I’m afraid to shake my fists, stories of Job ring in my ears.

But after a lifetime of torment, lying down and dying sounds peaceful.

I’d pick a field of wildflowers. I’d always been afraid of bugs, but knowing the ending was coming anyway,

maybe they would be more of a comfort, a constant companion.

I look to my father:

You were supposed to be my protector. To provide, guide, cherish me.

To want my best. To protect me from pain.

You brought it to my doorstep, wrapped in a bow. You gave anger and abuse and torture to a little girl like a present.

Then you’d sing a song about her blue eyes.

You knew you were my villain. Yet, you kept reappearing, beer in hand, belt in other.

Why didn’t you protect me from you?

I turn to God:

You were supposed to be my protector.

The almighty. The all knowing. The all powerful.

But you left me there. To die in that house.

You let them beat the life out of me. You watched it drain from my eyes, my blood pooling.

Did you not feel the sympathy for me that you felt for Abel?

Was I not worthy of your time, your love, your attention? Were they right?

I tried so hard to be good. For both of you.

But it wasn’t enough and she died instead.

I was the only one who mourned her. Who held her small limp body, long blonde hair splayed over my arms, bright pink dress wrapped around her.

I was the only attendee. No one spoke. I just stood over her coffin and cried.

I apologized. I’m sorry I failed her. I’m sorry I could not protect her.

Sorry I found out no one else would too late.

Sorry she had to die so I could be born.

I keep my hair short now, almost as a sacrifice to the girl that could’ve been. Could’ve been whole, could’ve been free.

The girl that should’ve been.

I tell her how sorry I am, that I became what she would not have wanted. Hard. Unforgiving.

Sorry I did what I had to do to get out.

I tell her I’m sorry they broke me. That I let them make me hard.

I’m sorry I didn’t keep long soft hair and an easy smile. I’m sorry I stopped painting.

I’m sorry I would disappoint her if she was here.

I was supposed to be protected - she was supposed to be protected.

I turn to God and my father, eyes ablaze.

You killed two people in the process.

I hope somewhere out there she grasps my cheeks with her gentle smile.

That she tells me it’s okay, that she understands, and that she forgives me.

I cry and tell her I’m sorry again. I wake up.