Trace

I watch him sleep. 

Eyes closed.

His breathing pattern, the sound of a lullaby.

I lift my finger and slowly trace his lips.

 The hair follicles on his chin, slightly twisting them around my finger. 

I trace the curves of his broad chest.

I bring my hand to his hair, his waves identifying to the waves of the ocean. 

He twitches. 

I smile. Happiness. 

I wake up and turn my head. 

He’s not there. 

I look up and watch the popcorn textures dance around my ceiling.

What is this feeling?

Come back my sweet love.

I am in the mist. 

I am waiting for my light.

Alone

 I was never fond being by myself, wether it was sleeping alone or being home alone, especially since I became accustomed in having my protection; my husband. I always had and have this fear that being alone means that you are exposing your vulnerability, especially since everytime I was alone i was being abused in some ways, so I tried any means possible to never be alone. 

 After my predators were physically away and my mother  was forced to start anew, I still chose to sleep with my mother in the same bed. I refused to walk nights, even in our apartment. I was afraid. Fear was my friend; it protected me from the evil eyes hiding in the dark, but it  could not protect my mind from projecting images and echoing noises; the night was scary. During the day,  I was able to continue life, but I was always self aware. Every movement and every look was an attack and I had to be in self defense…all the time.

 Now, that my husband is out of town for work, my anxiety keeps me up at nights. I will not lie, I am afraid. Afraid that if I close my eyes I will be exposed. I make sure everything is locked, secure, and safe. 

 My husband thinks I am doing well. He know i fear the dark. He knows my mind travels many paths to prevent me from knowing the sense of tranquility, but I utter the words  I’m doing good. Don’t worry with a smile,  so his mind can be worry free. 

 And I am okay… 

 I will be okay…

 I have to be okay…

Detonate


Tick. Tock. 

Time walks forward. 

Why am I not moving? 

Frozen. 

Eyes on me; stripping me naked. 

Exposed.

Whispers in the air…

They know…they know about me. 

Truth.

Stop it. 

Tick. Tock. 

Stop it. Stop moving… Time, stop moving. 

Be still.

Like me. 

I’ve ran out of places to hide. Where to?

Here? There?

Stop. 

Don’t you see? 

I’m on the verge of exploding.

Detonate.

The seventh Piece: The ┬áConfession (Trigger Warning)

 Trust is like a plant. Nurture and love will give it life. Neglect will give it death. 

 

 I was sitting on our antique dinner chair facing my mother, father, and my uncle who stood next to my father.

I don’t remember how we all gathered. I assume I told my mother if we could all speak. For some reason, that part was left out within my perplexed memories. 

My mother had a baffled expression. My father was still and calm. My uncle’s nerves were protruding through the sweat rushing down his neck. 

I spoke before my voice was chained by fear and anxiousness, “M-Mom…he touched me.” 

My mother’s eyes looked like they were about to jump out and land on me. She turned her head and  looked at my uncle, “Did you touch her?” Not an ounce of shock, surprise, or concern in her tone; the complete opposite of her expression earlier. 

He gave me a malicious stare, as though his eyes were telling me she will never believe you.

 “I never touched her.” He answered in a simple sentence. 

 My vision was a blur. My hands trembled. I started to scratch the top of my thumb nail. I was nervous.

My mother looked at me. Everyones’ eyes were on me. 

“He didn’t touch you. You see. Come on. Let’s go.” My mother turned her back and left. They all turned their back and left. I sat on that chair. I stared at the kitchen tiles underneath my feet. She didn’t believe me.

All the emotions I was feeling, slowly dissipitated. I couldn’t feel anything. She didn’t believe me.

I remember walking to my room and sitting on my bed. Why didn’t she believe me? Did I make it up? Is it okay that he did this to me? Is it right?  The questions continued pouring and an answer was never found. My uncle continued his frequent visits. He continued looking at me… smiling at me. The one good thing is that he never touched me after that. I assumed he was scared, but his distant gestures made me doubt that. 

Every day after that continued as usual; my father’s abuse, my facade, my uncle’s distant perverted gestures…nothing changed, except one.

 I lost something, something that children hold very dear, even adults…a mother’s trust.