My nightmare

January 3, 2011
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Looking back, if I try hard enough, I can see all of their faces. Every cruel eye and cracked lip. All the broken, painful smiles. All of the dirty caked cheeks and foreheads. Every missing tooth. I see it all. Not I night goes by were these faces do not haunt my dreams. Not a day goes by where I do not feel their cold, hard gaze cut into my body, and they speak horrible thoughts to me. Not a minute goes by where I wish their memory would fade out of my life. Yet, if they were to leave, my soul would leave with them because they feed upon the very fabric of my being, and to remove them, I would remove myself.
I had come from a place, showered in the darkness and I had fed upon the night. I had prayed that the sun would never shine, that way I would never have to look at the disgrace I had become. I begged the stars to stop being so bright, and I had pleaded with the moon to run after the sun, and never illuminate the dusk sky again. I was more comfortable in the dark. Some people told me I was crazy, some said I was looking for pity. I am not crazy, and I don’t need any pity, keep it for someone who actual cares.
I remember the copper taste of blood so well. I remember how it felt to be thrown against a wall. I remember how it feels when your salty tears burn fresh cuts. I remember all of the pain they caused.

Abuse was common in my house as a young child. Mental, physical, emotional, sexual, you name it, we had it. I remember my father. His face was cold and distant. His eyes were filled with a loud sadness, but they were so beautiful. His deep brown eyes, they sparkled and simmered. But that was only when he was sober and not doped up, it wasn’t often I saw his beautiful eyes.
When it was a bad day, I remember hearing him, growling as he climbed the stair to our apartment. His heavy footsteps against the concrete steps were the only warning I had to prepare for hell. I would run to my baby sister, and take her gently, her fat, pink cheeks almost hiding her sleepy eyes, and I would put her in the closet, making sure mother didn’t see where I put her; she would be safe in there. Mother would be lying on the couch, too drunk to move, and I would run into the bedroom, waiting for the nightmare to begin.

The door would slam against the old, rotting wall, and hit violently against the doorframe. Then the nightmare began.

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