I trudge up the hill, a cold wind grazing my face and
whipping through my hair. It is a dreary day today;
the clouds an angry shade of gray, the sun unwilling
to show its face. The cemetery is empty. All the
stones that I’m passing are weathered and old. I keep
walking until I come to a smaller, newer stone. On it
I see a name, etched into the marble. I run my
fingers along the cool surface.
The coolness electrocutes me. It sends a tingle
through my fingers and they all come rushing back.
They invade my mind once again and I close my
eyes, overwhelmed by all of the unwanted
memories.
Scene shifts, back to 2001.
I am transported back to a dark aapartment. I
am sprawled on a small mattress, laying on my back
staring at the ceiling. My heart hammers in my chest
and I feel scared. So scared. My empty stomach lets
out a low groan but I’m used to that by now.
When will he be back?
This question kept replying in my
mind, leaving no space for any other thought. My
breathing is fast and uneven. I don’t know how long
I’ve been sitting here for – a minute? An hour? A
week? The minutes seem to merge as I sit here,
waiting, but not wanting.
My heart rate triples as I hear footsteps approaching
quickly. They echo as they get closer and closer. I
am rooted to the spot as a dark figure emerges from
the shadows. It stalks towards me and grabs my arm
in a strong, painful grip. I struggle weakly and it
slaps me, hard. Stars pop in front of my eyes and my
cheek starts to sting.
“What are you doing, you good
for nothing pig?” My tears burn at the back of my
seven-year old eyes but they do not come out. They
never do anymore. “Don’t ignore me.” The voice in
my ear, tinged with the sickly sweet stench of
alcohol. I stay silent, not knowing what to say, the
words not daring to come out of my mouth.
The scene shifts. 2003
I’m nine now. My teachers at school ask me why
there are bruises so often on my arms and legs, why
there are scars on my shins, why I don’t come to
school often. Each time I shrug it off; give them a
bad excuse about falling over at the soccer match on
Saturday, or being down with the flu. The kids ask
me why I never go to birthday parties, why I never
come and sit with them at lunchtime.
Nobody knows that I walk the streets alone at night.
That I huddle in dark alleyways till little slivers of
moonlight find me. That I don’t want to go home
because of what is waiting. But eventually I’d have
to go home. And face him. And bear the hundred
blows every night without a single whimper –
because I know that will only anger him more.
The scene shifts again. 2006
My broken arm throbs painfully as I walk back to the
apartment. He really outdid himself this time by
stomping on it after coming home, seething with
rage after losing a poker game. I am surprised to see
lights peeking out from the usually dark windows,
and I walk up quickly to see what is going on. I am
greeted by two people, one of which is my grade
teacher and a man beside her whom I do not
recognize. My teacher runs to me, tear tracks marked
clearly down her face, and engulfs me in a tight hug.
I am momentarily stunned at this display of
affection. The rest is a blur. I see him being taken
away to a center to be ‘helped’, my teacher says. I
don’t understand what is happening, most of the
time – after all, I’m only twelve.
Back to present time. 2012
I am thrown back into the present and I realize that
there is a cold sweat on my forehead and my hands
are balled up into fists, my fingernails digging into
my palms and my knuckles ghostly shade of white.
I’m eighteen now. He died a month ago from liver
cirrhosis as a result of his alcohol abuse. I never saw
him again after that fateful day when I was twelve.
Until now – but does this even count? The name
etched there seems to be clearer than it was
before. David Anderson, 1963-2012. My father.
My father, who effectively snatched my childhood
away. My father, who left me with scars no amount
of medicine could ever heal.
But somehow, I’m not angry anymore.
“I forgive you,” I whisper, and let the wind carry my
message tohim as I walk away without looking back.
My name is Scott Anderson. I forgave, and now I
shall forget.
