I'm sitting on my bed, bent over a small notebook, pen in my cramping hand, and I have no clue what I should write. "Thank you for having me" doesn't nail it.
I touch the scars on my left forearm, then the ones on my right. I don't blame my parents for this anymore. My own hand did it, holding my own knife. Even blaming my father for cutting a word into my back would be pointless. I would never get anything in return, no apology, nothing. In my family, we never apologise. Saying "I'm sorry" means admitting a mistake.
So what is one supposed to write to parents who don't seem to care whether one exists or not, as long as one exists quietly? I remember the surprise I felt when they wept at my brother's funeral. I had no idea they could feel the loss as deeply as I felt it. They pulled themselves together soon enough, though. We are not a family of weaklings.
I kept telling myself that it's love that forbids me from asking why they treated their kids the way they did. Now I'm old enough to admit it isn't love. It's fear of being all wrong about it, of being unable to remember correctly. I know that Mother would say I made it all up, that they never raised a hand against their children, that it was my fault Karlsson died, that Father never whipped the shit out of us, that he never beat me unconscious, and I never woke up with DIE screaming from my back. Mother would convince me they'd poured out buckets of sweet love on us. Then, I would lose my memories, my pain, myself. I'd cease to exist.
My legs tremble. My body wants to curl up protectively around my heart, make it feel like an embryo in a loving mother's womb.
My vision floods with saltwater. I hear myself crying when I run the sharp point of the pen into my forearm. Once, twice, three times. Beads of blood mix with ink. I take a deep breath. My heartbeat grows calmer.
The paper before me is perfectly white. A very capitalised "YOU HURT ME!" wants to be there, right next to a "I think I'm stupid enough to love you, but maybe not, because I don't even fucking know what love is!"
There's a ton of shit I want to throw at them, but I doubt the three sheets of paper will ever be enough to take all that ink.
I decide for one word.
Farewell
Something tells me Mother will appreciate that there's absolutely nothing between the lines.
YOU ARE READING
Cut
Adventure★★★★★ "right up there with Hunger Games" I've reached my expiration date. Not that it matters. We're all going to die. To sixteen-year-old Micka, all words have flavours. Her emotions come with such force that she can't help but carve them into her...
