My childhood was not one that I would brag about. In fact, I would much prefer to leave it in the past where it belongs…but the shadows of memories have become more persistent in their nagging, even as the ever-present drip of the faucet distracts me from this pursuit, the echoing cry of my own child. The whining hum of the electricity and the soft moans of lovers; the twitter of gay birds and the soft rustle of thick fabric…but I can't let my mind wander.
For the most part, I was a happy child; happy as in naturally so, innately, blissfully unaware of cruelties and malice…because I knew I was special. I was born a creator of two regular human beings. Created, myself I suppose. In retrospect, the tiny, bloody handprints in the sand of the hourglass; the blood-flecked petals of cherry blossoms and the ghosted eyes of the drowning pool tell me that I was mistaken. There was no redeeming quality; there was no net of comfort, no sacred place. I was born naked wet and screaming into the hands of Lucifer, etching forever within me that black river that settles its diseased countenance in the fair fields of my soul. Lucifer was never so beautiful.
Two years pass; I am aging, an increased rate, but not as fast as I would like. I am still too small to see over the kitchen table without standing on habitually broken toes. Bruises litter the pale skin that holds this sack of pudgy flesh together, pale blonde hair floats about a puffed, darkened face; bare patches bloody and sore, reminders of a hand that pulled too hard. None of that matters; available to jade eyes that water in pain - soft sweet, warm cookies within reach; coated in the pale sugar we are forbidden to savour, smelling faintly of lemon and strawberries. A war wages within; to take one puffed piece of pastry, to suffer another blow among the never-ending storm…all to have a sweet glimpse of a mundane, normal life. Alternatively, to leave them sitting there, a feast for the flies who seem less an annoyance than I, less a bother in that they can die with one swat while I seem to keep getting up, seem to trundle down rickety wooden steps every morning into a meager existence.
Another precious handful of tender years pass slowly; but my outward aging does not stop, nor does it decrease in forward velocity. I am physically sixteen, seventeen perhaps…but my mentality? Lost in the mind of a happy child, the mind of a man, a woman, drug addict, a communist, Hitler, the dead, the dying – those full of life, a rabid dog. So many mentalities that contradict what I am outwardly. A tragically beautiful girl with big oriental jade eyes, verging on the flower of womanhood; sophisticated, using make-up to hide the rich purple bruises, keeping my hair sheared close to my head to prevent the grasping fingers of shadowy predators that come creeping in the night.
A most vivid memory of youth, my teen years…rough skin, short prickly hairs rubbing against soft, budding breasts. Bruising, tearing, aching, searing. The smell of cheap beer, the feeling of a hot body layered in dirty sweat, rough scarred hands grasping and holding, pinning me down. I cannot fight yet, my powers will not work, they sputter and flare before dying with the asphyxiating fear that trembles through frozen veins. He violates, tears away the thin membrane of youth and innocence with his insatiable greed. I wake up in a bloody pulp; the sheets stick to my drying wounds and I hear Lucifer's laugh - deep, baritone and vibrant in my head…the river within threatens to overflow with hate, but it cannot muster the energy.
Another year passes, and then yet another…I age just a spot more, I am a full woman…and here I stay. Nothing changes for many summers. Interaction with those outside of my twisted, psycho-fuck family was limited to minimal doctoral visits to assure that I was developed and that no permanent damage was done. I can laugh…though bitterly, as I remember why I was hurt. Why they excused the dark bruises, the broken bones…she fell down the stairs. I can recall now being shoved down, but never did I actually fall. That changed some years later when I met Mark. He and I became fast friends...well, fast friends for one who hated the human race. He held me, helped me…saved my withering funeral pyre of a heart from turning to dust. He gave me the faith I needed in humanity; he was my greatest vice. To take him away meant to take my life away; to deprive me of my very life's blood. That is another story for another time. For now, my eyes water as they did so long ago…but not in pain, in bitter memory perhaps…pain never again.