Modern Love 2: The After Years

What My Life Was (Van's Story)

What My Life Was (Van's Story)

|Vannick Támás' POV|

I don't remember the town to much. The cobble stone streets of Szentendre were cracked and had the most distinct sound when horse drawn carriages drove over it, to deliver harvests to market. The sound of the horse's hooves on the stones still rings in my ears. I rarely went out with Mama. She was very sick, with something called lung cancer. When we did go out it was brief, for fresh air and sunlight.

Those were my favorite days. Inside our orange brick townhouse, the rank smell of stale beer and cigarettes burn my nostrils.The dim light makes my eyes scorn sights. I dare not make a sound or touch anything. I keep to myself while mother goes for midnight walks on the streets for money.

Father. I fear the remembrance of him. His yellow gritted teeth. His long dark hair and rough voice. His piercing blue eyes that plead anger. He never wanted me. He called me a mistake. He made it appoint to let me know I was nothing. When my wheat locked mother left in fishnets and cut low tops every night, Father would awake with fire in his eyes.

It's not so much I was starved as much more than I was abused. He'd light a cigarette and smoke it until it was almost done. Grabbing my tiny arm, he puts out the butt on my chest and stomach. my scream pierces my own ears. My eyes leak tears I try so hard to hold in. He does this over an over. Light, smoke, put out, burn. Burn, burn, burn.

Oh how I remember the burn. Like a fire's bite. Like a a snake from hell sinking it's teeth in my skin.

Then the knife. Every night, he makes a cut of meat. As he cuts it, he calls his blade upon my thighs. Saying they're the blade's too dull. Asking me to test it out. Blood pools to the floor as he holds me down. His rough meaty hands on my neck. He slices me open like his cut of meat. When I run out of tears and he passes out drunk I crawl to the only place that's safe. My room. A closet. A four by three room that's sleep in every night.

The dark. I'm accustomed to it. It calms an soothes me. The smell of malt balls and dust fills my nose. I cry myself to sleep. Until.

"Hol a francban van! Te kis szar!" (Where the fuck are you! You little shit!) Awake. I always awake to the rough sound of his voice. I curl up under coats and rags, but that doesn't stop him from finding me. He pulls me by my hair, which feels like he's tearing my scalp.

He smashes my face into wooden chair. Pulling my tiny wrists to the rings of the chair, he pull his belt from his pants. It's frayed and has small barbs on the flat leather.

It pulls on my skin. Burning, stinging pain that cuts deep. With a lot of thrashes of the belt against my bare back, I cry through the pain until he stops. Picking up me by my throat, he chokes me for a few minutes. His breath smells of Vodka and Smirnoff. He chokes me until I see black and I wake up the next morning in the dark closet.

I don't want to wake up. To be alive. Then I hear the creak of the door. "Vannick?"

I look up and her blonde hair fills the door space. Her blue eyes are sparkling in the hall lights. I love her. All of her. My mother is the angel of my life. She pulls me from the closet and I feel safe in her arms. She sings Esti Dal to me and I cry in her arms.

"Erdő mellett est vélëdtem,

Subám fejem alá tëttem,

Összetëttem két kezemet,

Úgy kértem jó Istenëmet:

Én Istenëm, adjál szállást,

Már mëguntam a járkálást,

a bujdosást,

Az idegën földön lakást.

Adjon Isten jó éjszakát,

Küldje hozzám szent angyalát,

Bátoritsa szívünk álmát,

Adjon Isten jó éjszakát,

mmm..."

(Evening darkness overtook me near the woods;

I have put my coat under my head (i.e. as a pillow),

I have put my hands together

To pray to the Lord, like this:

Oh, my Lord, give me a place to sleep,

I am weary with wandering,

With walking around and hiding,

With living on foreign land.

May Lord give me a good night,

May he send me a holy angel,

May he encourage our hearts' dreams,

May he give us a good night.)

Around my fourth birthday, which we never celebrated my birthday, Father became more violent. One day Mother, who was getting more sick, saw him burning me. He shoved her into the wall and beat her senseless. I say and cried. I screamed and screamed as that monster beat her till her chest didn't raise any more. I hide in my closet. As I cower in my corner under the clothes, I hear a loud bang.

I laid there for days. I never left my closet. I waited for mother to come and get and sing to me. I waited in the silence and the dark. I waited and waited, but he never can and sang. He never opened that door to give me light. Her voice never entered my ears. Why wouldn't my mommy sing for me?

Feeling weak and broken, the door opened one day. A woman in a pants suit of navy came in and picked up my barely alive body. She held me in her arms. I couldn't cry, scream, could barely breath, but she held me close. I swore it was mother in a bright light, raising her arms out to me.

I awoke several days later in a strange land. A doctor in a white lab coat examined my body. He frightened me. I screamed at his presence an wanted to run but nurses held me down, almost breaking one of my ribs.

After they releases me to a tall woman in a white van. The woman took me to a place where more children were. They avoided me like the plague, but it didn't bother me. I found a new closet. I slept there and cried there. I barely ate when I was there. And after a few days of this place, I cried more to myself. Then the door opened on the closet and a woman like mommy called to me. She sang and I felt mama again. I went to her and she felt safe. I felt loved.