A Bruise

Trigger warning: physical abuse

I stand in front of it, six feet away. I hadn’t been here in over 4 years, and the years that I had been here were almost a fragment of my imagination. I couldn’t remember my childhood, it was as if it were puzzle where most of the pieces were either missing or do not fit anywhere. Every time i try to recall something, even the slightest details, I never get anywhere. It’s as if it leaves me even more confused than when I started. I retrace my steps back to the start, trying to figure out where I went wrong and I give up trying because i never get anywhere. 

I twist the metal doorknob, giving it a push and the door immediately gives in. There’s a crack and as I push the door i began to see the downstairs bedroom that I wasn’t allowed to go into. It’s empty now, of course. But the aroma of lavender and dust still floods this house, enough to suffocate anyone who stayed here for 14 years. 

I step inside, my boots pressing hard again the wooden floor. I look down and there’s nothing. Just my shoes and the floor: no memories. 

When my parents told me that they were selling the house, I wasn’t shocked at all. I knew that eventually they were gonna do it, and I was relieved to never have to go back there again. It was as if everything that had scarred me in my life remained in this house, locked away where no one would ever know what happened. 

I walk into the downstairs bedroom, feeling weird even now knowing that I am supposed to be here. My mom isn’t going to show up and tell me to get out. 

Before I walk upstairs I take off my shoes because even I now know the consequences of walking with shoes when it’s a cream carpet. It’s a habit that I have. 

Once I make it to the second floor, I can see what once was the living room and the dining area. There’s nothing left of it now, just the cream carpet and the kitchen that hasn’t changed much. 

The memories are still there. Sort of.

I plop myself down on the carpet, where it used to be out living room.

I remember that every Saturday I would wake up, coming downstairs and seeing my mom cleaning the kitchen and my dad working out right where I’m now sitting. 

My dad would turn up to the volume to U2 songs and I would just sit on one of the leather sofas, watching the live performances that he’d always put. 

I blink, rubbing my eyes. 

We’re at the public pool, it’s my sisters birthday. I remember thinking that today would be different, that my parents would not do anything to ruin her day. 

I don’t remember what my sister and I were arguing about, but I’m almost certain it was never that serious. 

That day, my mother dragged both of us out of the pool and when we got home we knew what was gonna happen. I don’t remember how it happened or how bad it hurts, but I do remember my sister crying in the corner behind the sofa and looking directly at me. She kept telling my mom that she had promised today would be different. That it was her birthday. 

I think the screaming was the worst part, especially knowing that you were gonna be next. Especially knowing that no matter what could have done differently, it wouldn’t change the bruises you were gonna have tomorrow.

Sometimes it was because I ate too much, or talked too much. Or I laughed at something that was meant to be funny. Sometimes it was forgetting something important. Sometimes it was having a small argument with my sister. It got worse during the school year, being homeschooled and having my mom forced to teach me and my sister when English wasn’t her first language. My dad swore he would put us in school eventually, he just needed more time and money even though he was already gaining thousands of dollars a week. He had forced us all to be at home all day as if we were indoor cats. Even though I’ve forgiven both of them, it’s the thought of that that makes me sick because no girl should ever relate to Repunzel in that they are locked away from everything in their life. They are isolated from the world. 

The thing about pain is that you sometimes you don’t get to remember how it feels, just what happened to make you feel it. 

My dad’s belt was one of the things used. It would hurt even more especially if he was the one doing it. I can’t remember much about him doing it, but I can easily recall all of it if I stayed in the house long enough. He was at work most of the day and rarely tried to be close with me and my sister. He had always wanted a boy and made it clear, so he hadn’t gotten what he bargained for. 

I stand up and go upstairs, the same creak that I would hear every time. Sometimes it had become my worst enemy, hiding from my mom and walking slowly upstairs only for the creaking to completely give it away. 

I reach the third floor, where the two rooms are. My sister and I’s, and my parents. I go to my room, the two windows letting the sun come in and warm me as I lay on my back once again on the carpet. There’s only a closet next to me.

That closet became my best friend. It was where I would spent most of my afternoons, hiding from the world. It was peaceful, especially when my parents started fighting. It didn’t block out all the yelling, but it was dark and better than nothing. The threats my mom made, and my dad getting angry that she would make them in the first place. It was always about a divorce, or my dad would drink alcohol or smoke again. He swore he would stop, and every time he didn’t. It happened every few weeks, so I knew that he wasn’t going to change when he could get away with it every time he did it. 

Sometimes when I knew what was coming, as soon as I got home I would run up the stairs really quickly, the creak letting my mom know what was going on. I would hear her footsteps behind me, as I started running up and locking the door, hiding in the closet. The door was fairly easy to open, you could even do it with a knife. She did and once she had gotten in she would tell me to open the closet. I refused, knowing what awaited for me once I did. She swore she wouldn’t do anything, so I believed her. Once I opened the closet she told me that just because I resisted i had only made it worse. 

I stand up, going to my parents bedroom but I don’t stay there for very long. I look at the room and as I walked out it was filled with bruises. Memories that weren’t erased, were there if I ever wanted to remember them. 

I make my way downstairs, put my shoes on and slam the door on my way out. I get in the car and once I’ve finally made it out I can breathe. 

See, even just a few minutes in the paper house with the dust and lavender aroma can make anyone suffocate. The tears come afterwards, and then I’m told the house is officially sold a few months later.