a rewrite of something old for my creative writing class, because the story i'd been developing at the time was less plot and more character narrative, and the prof was ixnay'ing anything he figured didn't have enough of a central plot. heh. i should finish that story, but it's on the to-do list among many, so who knows? i'm aware that there are many unaswered questions about this piece, so my only suggestion is to merely take it as it is.

there are definately those of you who'll remember this, and might see some of the minor changes wrought. for those who haven't seen it before...enjoy!

oh, and i'm currently working on that new chapter for Perfect Uncle, and do hope to have it done before the summer. it's been rather difficult for me to get beyond the anguish at accidentally losing the first version when it was saved over with something else. that, and i've lost my trusty friend; my thumbdrive. it just corroded itself and ALL MY WRITING was lost. well, i had it backed up in most places, but the original version of that story was one that was not, except for in writing, which is like comparing Gulliver's Travels to See Spot Run. not good. heh. anyway: that's it for my update report.

tuesday, april 1, 2008. 10:52 pm.

My body hurts again, my face drawn with pain upon attempting to roll off the mattress that was still lying on the floor. Never did get that bed frame we always talked about. A stiff ache caused my knee to tremble when I shifted my weight to the joint; walking smoothed out the imperfection to my gait as I walked from the sparse bedroom to the empty hallway, silence clogging my ears as I headed for the bathroom.

There wasn’t a reason to turn on the light, not with the amount of sun pouring through the frosted-glass window, just as there wasn’t a reason to shut the door, but I did both actions out of habit anyway, even going so far as to pop the lock without giving it a conscious thought. Locking the door hasn’t been something I’ve had to think about for a long time. Walking to the counter, I spared a brief glance into the mirror to ascertain that my nose hadn’t eaten itself or that my hair hadn’t fallen out during the night, and then my attention turned elsewhere.

My reflection has become a freak show, for all I can ever see when a mirror arises in front of my eyes is the damaged tissue slicing through my eyebrow and running towards my ear. Savage white and puckered, the sunken flesh narrowly bypasses my left eye; a hairsbreadth lower and I’d have lost it completely. Even worse than my reflection is seeing that scar in every face that has ever looked into mine. It’s easily visible upon every stranger who ever took a second glance; it’s even there upon my brother’s. Seeing it within his gaze is perhaps the worst of all, for he only drives that mark deeper into the flesh with every piteous glance, with every momentary spark of rage that he still harbors for you.

Because you were the one who gave it to me.

Turning my back to the mirror, my fingers tugged at the frayed hem of my wrinkled sleep shirt, pulling it up my sides, past my rib cage and over my head, blocking my immediate view of heritage-dusky skin made pale through lack of exposure to sunlight. Skin hidden away because of Dad; of that night long ago, drunkenness accompanied by a broken bottle and my torso torn open. My relationship with him had been fractured before that incident, but became irreparable ever after.

My thoughts avoided returning to my reflection with a trained stealth gained through time, choosing to concentrate instead on staring down towards the floor as my ragged navy sweats were pushed downwards and off my legs, leaving me bare to nobody but the walls of the room, and they don’t pass judgment. At least not audibly, and I could deal with that.

Even still, my fingers self-consciously slid down to my left knee, the joint still weak even though it was almost two years ago that you smashed it with…something heavy. I can’t remember that far into it anymore, if I ever could; everything leading up to that moment is, unfortunately, still deeply engraved into my memory.

Your eyes were close to mine, your breath and intelligible words eating away my skin as your fingers ripped at my hair. There were fisted knuckles against my lips and eyes, a count of five times before they fled elsewhere, slamming against my ribs, back, and gut. Hot saliva splat upon my cheek as your knee cracked ribs and I hit the wall and table, breaking the stained-glass lamp you once bought me for my birthday. I fell onto the pieces and rolled away in some desperate moment of self-preservation; I hold scars to this day of the shards that sliced my right hip through heavy denim jeans.

Apparently, it was wrong of me to bleed onto our white carpet, so you took it upon yourself to drag me onto the tiling of the foyer, rubbing me raw where my skin grated on fibers until I hit the sticky flooring made slick the longer I lay where you left me. Curled there, curled up into a ball and silent. Waiting.

You always hated silence, and my own was always the worst.

You kicked me four--maybe five--times, one connecting with the side of my head; whether from deliberation or sheer luck, I don’t know. But that kick is why I can’t remember what it was you used to shatter my knee. In my dreams, it’s always different, even if I have a suspicion that it was that broken broom handle that had resided in the front hall for ages; it was the closest heavy object, after all. What I can remember clearly is my screaming, because it made you laugh. Your laugh was broken--in retrospect, perhaps likened to sobbing--and that’s when I finally lost consciousness.

Every day, my fingers remember the scene through the Braille-writing of scars, my fingers can remember everything you did to me. There exists a map of mangled tissue, and I step into the shower every morning with the intention of allowing the heat to enter those scars and wash them away. Because when the scars fade, then so shall you.

You simply won’t exist anymore, and the prison cell that now holds your body will become empty, and nobody will care.

But…I do care. Despite telling myself different, I care.

That lamp, the pieces now kept in a shoebox in the bedroom closet, was one I’d wanted for three years, and you saved up the money to buy it. It had been worth nine months of working double shifts at the seafood place, nine months of constant exhaustion and coming home still happy to see me. And the scar on my ribs given me from my dad when I was fifteen…your solemn kisses once banished its hurts, corroding away the anger it had deposited upon my soul for so long.

I was so very angry when I met you, angry at the world and hating myself and those closest to me. Without exception, I expressed hatred for my father, for my brother and sister…for my mother. When I met you, my hatred was the blackest it could have been, but you loved me anyway. Your love and patience wiped away the anger and left me pacified; I wish I could regain that hatred, to hate you now, but once gone, it never returned.

I’ll never know your intentions that day or during those years, but I do know that when I die and my body deteriorates, the minor scars and features will fade away through time. But the ones you left are imprinted upon my bones, visible forever. You will exist then, even after I am gone.

And that’s how long I’ll love you.

A/N: there now. :laughs: