Broken Love

It was the same as always. The same dream, the same thin membrane of memory making its presence known. A life I borrowed in which I do not belong, a shattered innocence that can never be retrieved, and a mother that is no longer mine.

I am a little girl again. It is a few days after we have moved. We had changed houses, cities, even states. I should have felt safe now. But now I had had something even more terrifying to live with. I watched around the corner of a white spackled wall, and stared at the life form before me.

My mother sat on the floor, circled about with stuffed toys and baby clothes, rocking back and forth whispering their names quietly. “Katelyn, Anthony, Katelyn, Anthony. My babies, My babies. Come back.” Over and over the names were repeated as her tears ran from her eyes as fast as the words from her lips.

I could see the toys that she gripped in her arms; an orange dog and a turquoise beaver. Part of a “family” that had been created by children in times of tragedy and terror. They were all that was left of my younger siblings.

It was then that I moved, whether to back away of move closer I do not remember, but what I do remember is the anger and the hate that shot from her eyes as she looked at me. I stumbled backward and fell as she rose to her feet, the toys falling to the floor.

Her hands, shaking, reached toward me and grabbed me by the face and hair. “Your fault. Your fault. All your fault. Wouldn’t tell.” She shook me then slightly, my body swinging and legs kicking as my head and neck began to ache.

“Mommy. Please! It hurts!” I said as my vision began to fade. She dropped me then, causing me to land in a heap on the floor.

“Your fault that they’re gone. Yes, all your fault. You took away my babies.” She walked away then, picking up the animals, moving away to the corner of the room to continue her rocking and whispering.

I sat up and crawled quietly away. I knew then that I was no longer enough for her, that I had taken away her precious babies. I went to a mirror and saw the damage: red streaks on my necks that would soon bruise and haunted eyes shining with tears of shame and regret.

Yet this would only be the beginning of many hateful words, pinches, slaps, scratches and bruises that would occur over the next 9 years. By that time I would have been already broken beyond repair.

 I wake up then from the dream, my skin clammy and wet. My heart races as I try to fight the adrenaline that rushes through my veins. I kick the covers off and walk into the bathroom. I stare into the mirror above the sink. I am no longer the scared little girl from my dreams. I am much older, wiser and yet still just as scared.

I will never forget.