#51 blood & charcoal.


“Your past is just a story. And once you realize this, it has no power over you.”

Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters



There’s this thing about memories, they either have the power to destroy you, or give you a sense of security that it is only the past. Unfortunately, it becomes a whole, a progression of darkness that would dawn over you and make you feel like you’ll break under the heavy mist of fear. A preemptive feeling of chaos that wanted to form inside, concave until it was a massive crater that was your chest cavity. Your throat struggling for breath. Your hands trying to reach for silence.

You will get nothing. Apathy will become an uproar between your ears.

A child, whom is solemnly and innocently unbroken.

A smile that still retains an infant’s innocence, and the child’s curiosity still retains the brilliance of my yesteryears. I’m wearing dark washed denim, a shirt two sizes too big. I’m pressing my palms against a swing, waiting a turn. Then, two boys attempt to play roughly with me, and as I was a child of age, and spirit, I followed suit to their dangerous game.

Soon enough, I’m pulled beneath a ceramic free-standing tortoise. I’ve been sat on, and I relent. I am left concerned and gasping for breath. He’s my friend, I trust him.

There’s no need to ask him why he’s doing such a thing.

Now, this other boy is my friend too. I trust him as well.

They would never bound me and force me.

I feel someone place a hand along the length of my back, pressing their fingers along the bumps of my spine, caressing them, slowly. It can’t be, what are they doing. This is a strange game, I say. None speak nor sigh. I am the only one who struggles for breath. I cannot speak.

“Matthew, let me up, please.” I beg, grappling at the cement. I am unseen, the clamor of children drowning out any form of my struggle.

I was so close, yet so far from help.

He’s unrelenting, and I don’t resist for the slightest moment of time, until I feel my pants fall around my knees. His touch is brimstone to my skin. I yelp in surprise. Gasps are escaping, but no other sound. A lewd smile decorates his face. I swallow, I’m not sure yet of what’s happening. I only feel it is wrong.

I plead, and scream, but yet the minutes go by, an eternity as the boy starts to fumble with his zipper, desperate to get this done. I’m sobbing, confused and feeling estranged. They grope and make unwanted noises, the sounds slipping from their mouth in pure arousal.

I start to tremble, and fight. To no avail, I’m a little thing, under the weight of two boys who had once claimed their friendship. A new fear was forming deep within me. I could not place a finger on it, but as fingers slipped along the edges of my untouched skin, discovering where else to emit my fears.

I screamed.

I tore at my lungs for breath, for the courage to fight the fleeting breaths.

Just about to succumb, I found it in me to scream once more, where I was spotted. I’d escaped the whole night terror come to life.

Only for it to become an apparition that follows me to this today.

Tears come in splintered motions, my hands trembling under that one memory’s burden. It’s lucid, an acid being poured over my memory, darkening the image as it grossly curled along the edges, my mind in complete loss for words. Thoughts are closed behind gated alleys, blood spilling along the clusters of my distraught.

I hid this memory from all. Pretending what had been done was all right. That I’d be fine, the years come and go, as do those past flashes of terror. But, as life went on, there was this innate fear of the gender, I was afraid they’d try the same, that I would be dragged along the concrete and lead me under a dark cemented escape. Where he would try the same, and touch me, disgust me as his hands roamed where I would not permit. That he would answer it for me, clasp my mouth shut and whisper sweet nothings, which would become threats soon to come.

I was afraid, a phobia unexplained. It led to something strung events; my mind was a corrupt web of lies and fears.

I wasn’t at fault.

I remember my principal say.

“Why would you provoke the boys, you know better, sweetheart.”

I was wrong, I was at fault.

What a shame, I silenced myself for years.

Depression swelled within me like a disease. Festering inside me, causing me to damage and falter every step I took to fix myself.

Now, at the peak of adulthood, the memories surface, the repressed anger, the tears that failed before to leave me, poured, I was breaking. Those boys ruined me. I was scarred and it took me ten years to figure it out. Now, I break so often. But I have to thank the very few people who help. One in particular, he’s carried with my burdens for not long, but someone who tries to repair what you felt couldn’t, is the greatest blessing of all.

n/a: Terribly sorry for my absence, but so much has been going on! I’m glad to be back, although!


5 thoughts on “#51 blood & charcoal.”

  1. Wow this is very powerful. I was listening to Demons by Imagine Dragons while reading and they went together perfectly.
    We all have our past, some more tragic than others, but in the end it is the past, we can change who we are today.

    1. Overcoming events that plague your mind is difficult, but it’s possible. 🙂 Our past should never define our future! Thank you for the lovely comment, dear.

  2. I’m so sorry you were made to go through this. It was wrong. Writing releases. I’m not an Oprah fan, but she’s been through much and faces it with such a wondrous attitude. Her outlook on forgiveness includes that forgiving is being able to finally say, “Thank you for that experience.” You’ve turned pain into art. You’re on your way.

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