Just A Child

I was just a child, a kid. I used to dream in vivid color and narrated stories. But you stole my innocence away from me. You, all by yourself. I hope that one day you'll realize the pain you caused me. I hope that one day you'll face your creator and justice comes forth. I hope one day you suffer just as much as I did--am.

Time doesn't heal wounds like mine. It only slightly fades as we become distracted by what is in our current life. Inevitably something happens that triggers our mind and those memories come flooding back; a loud noise, a steady light, a crying baby. One can only dream of peace; a single day without a flashback, a single second without hoping to die.

I am not a victim nor am I a survivor. I am merely a human being who is plagued by post traumatic stress and haunting nightmares of childhood abuse. I am a twenty-nine year old writer who fights every second to get through his day. I never went to Iraq or Afghanistan. I didn't serve in the military with loaded guns and bombs. I wasn't on the front lines when America went to war. I was just a child, a kid, hoping to have some sort of normal childhood experience.

I was just a toddler when you started to hit me. I was just a young boy when you decided to make terrible choices. I was just a teenager when you threatened to kill me. I am just an adult fighting to not kill myself because you decided to hurt me.

Time fades as I fear to remember. I remember you coming in to my room and sitting in the dark, on the edge of my bed. I remember the stink of alcohol as your breath hit my face. It stung just as much as your hand did when you grabbed for my leg. I remember you muttering things under your breath. I remember my face flushing with fear, I was scared of the dark. You turned out my night-light. You said grown boys didn't need lights at night to sleep. But we both know I never slept.

I remember the way you stared at me when you wanted me to sit on your bed with you. You were lying on your stomach, I was frozen. I remember the way you made the bed move with your body weight. I was six. I remember those nights when mom worked the midnight shift at the hospital and all I wanted was for her to come home.

I remember falling asleep on the living room floor and waking up to you watching me from the couch. I remember what you were watching on the television, I remember the noises. I remember where your hands were and the fact that you didn't have a blanket. I remember every single detail from every moment that seemed questionable. You knew what you did was wrong, but you chose to do it anyway.

I remember the day my brother started sleeping with his headphones on. I couldn't scream for help even if I wanted to. You told me to keep quiet. You instilled a sense of fear that I can't quite describe. You were abused as a child, as well. So why did you have to continue the cycle?

I remember the way you used to massage my shoulders, play with my hair. I remember the way you asked me to come closer, don't be afraid. I remember you being calm and me thinking at least you weren't yelling or hitting me. I did anything you asked to keep you from becoming angry. I was a compliant child, I didn't talk back. I remember you grabbing me with your giant hands and telling me not to tell my mother.

I remember the way it felt when my heart broke that night, those nights. I remember the way it hurt to breathe, to see, to speak, to think. I remember feeling my innocence leave my spirit. I remember feeling hollow, dead. Years six through eleven were a living hell. Those years you came into my room, turned off my light, and watched me from the edge of the bed you were never invited to. I remember year twelve when all you decided to do was beat me, tear my hair out, and threaten to kill me. At least you didn't come into my room anymore.

I remember waking up in a cold sweat last night as I feared to remember. I don't want to remember anything but the memories keep forcing their way back. It is like being forced to watch a bad movie when all you want to do is look away. It's being paralyzed by the sight, sound, and smell of everything you ever stood for. I remember waking up every hour, on the hour, trying to see if I could hear your footsteps from down the hall. I remember lying in my bed, paralyzed, feeling your presence just outside of my door. I could hear the vibrations of your blood pulsing through your body. I could feel my heart beat in my ears.

I wish it was just the beatings, the name calling, the imprinted hand on my back. I wish it was just he way my skin stung after you smacked it from afar. I wish it was just you picking me up by just the roots of my hair. I wish it was just my hair falling out in the shower after you got mad. I wish it was just the way you threw suitcases from across the room or the way you punched your fist through my wooden door. I wish it was just the way you used to call me fat and worthless or the way your spit hit my face as you screamed into my ear.

I wish it was never hearing my mother cry herself to sleep at night when you were at work. I wish it wasn't the way I tried to kill myself when I was sixteen or the way the doctors treated my mother in the emergency room when I was cutting. I wish it wasn't twelve hospitalizations, six years of therapy, and countless medications that still don't have me feeling like a human. I wish it wasn't a broken brotherhood because one doesn't feel like he protected the other. I wish it wasn't a weathered little boy living in an adult man's soul still pleading for help. I wish it wasn't me.