128 Hertz

I don't remember much of my childhood. Nearly all of it's a fuzz, but every now and then, a memory will come to me.

This one might not be so odd to those who grew up with medically involved parents in the 70s, as technology hadn't yet improved, but if I was hurt, my father would prefer to use a tuning fork to find any non-stable fractures before taking me to get an x-ray. With his staunchly direct voice, speaking in our native German, he would tell me to lie down on the family-room floor and examine me. On my legs, my arms, my ears, all around, he would ring it. And, on occasion, it would be very painful.

I got into a lot of fights as a boy, usually with my brothers, especially Friedrich, who we called Fritz. This wasn't always your typical brotherly love, but full fist fights where blood was a common sight, and gatred was a common feeling. I'm still not sure why it always devolved into this, but one thing was clear, but Fritz, the biggest, hated my guts with the deepest, darkest passion. I did as well, but I'm not sure why either.

When my father was home from work and found us going at it, he would break it up and give us a beating himself, usually lashings with a belt or similar object. Then, he would examine us. If we acted up, he would use our head to ring the fork, right on the temple or very top, wherever it was most sensitive.

Since he was the eldest, Fritz went first. The entire time he would glare at me, perhaps plotting ways to kill me. But I was always small and frail, and could never do any real damage to him, only bite his arms and hands or find soft spots in his skull and groin to target. Hurt him, but not kill him. This happened so often that it became second nature to know when he'd come at me and beat me unconscious, so much so I couldn't remember how I went from getting wailed on to looking up at my father's well-groomed face. The time would dissapear before it ever began.

If the tuning fork made the pain shoot up my leg, my father would bandage me up good and tight and only take me to a doctor if it got worse. He made me stay in bed and the nanny would feed me and keep me company - my mother couldn't care any less about me than she already did.

I don't like to think about my family. I've long since forgotten everyone else's faces, but some things here and there, a song or an object, maybe an old bedtime story, they can take me back in an instant, like I'm there again.

But, they're just memories. It's all in the past now.

People still use tuning forks; my own doctor still uses one, so it doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. It's a tool like everything else. It shouldn't effect me anymore.

But no matter how hard I try to look past it, I always see their faces.