at home, in the dark

I was only ever just another one of my parents' things. I had no voice. I had no armor. Even my accomplishments somehow belonged to them. One more thing. One more item collecting mildew, keeping company with spiders and dust.

They got to me -- how could they not? I was soft in so many places. But my mind stayed intact, somehow. Saved, perhaps, by the protective shield of my skull, the one thing strong enough to keep them out. I knew what they did to me was wrong. That their choices were hurtful and erratic, that none of it made any sense. I knew that I never wanted to be like them, never, never, never.

I remember the dank dinginess of our apartment, the crowded corners and the early darkness. I remember shutting down the moment I walked in the door. I remember trying to gauge the moods of the grownups around me. Would the descending hand deliver a carress or a smack? Would there be absentmided tenderness or focused violence? The harm went so deep. Even my skin was disregarded as a barrier. Where did they end, and where did I begin? I turned off my senses. I told my body not to care. And then, when I got hugs or other normal touches from people, I hardly felt those either, even if I wanted to.

They broke me, entered me, stole from me. Left a trail of dirt and ashes and shrapnel in their wake. Kept me stored in the dark with their other loot, waiting, always waiting. Waiting for them to notice how much they were hurting me. Waiting for the apology that never came, that has still not come.