“Spread your legs, wider,” the operation occurs in candlelight. He holds the razor blade to the vulnerable skin. Meticulously, seriously and with authority, he shaves until I am smooth and bare. The sight arouses him.
An exposed and vulnerable Carly. He tells her that he loves her. Carly is confused and silent. She knows that she loves him yet remains silent. She just looks into his eyes. His feelings are a raw, alive entity. Something she must not harm. She holds his head in her hands and says, “I don’t want to hurt you, ever."
IT WAS NOT MY FAULT. IT WAS NOT MY FAULT. IT WAS NOT MY FAULT. Cannot stand the sun, this sun. too bright. Too bright for my darkness.
“Fuck off! I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you. Leave me alone.” I remove my mask, my armour. See, now, I am scarred. Wounds have been covered by creeping layers of time. A disfigurement. Beneath the thin, stretched outer skin, half grown layers weep, encrusted and ill. The wound still blisters, bubbles up sometimes. The pain is like the first pain felt.
“It’s not me you’re talking to, is it?” he says, “who’re you talking to? Who did this to you, my baby?” He stays.
I was abused. He tells me that it is not my fault. I know. I was abused. I will always be affected. The violation has left me damaged. My father did not respect me. My anger merges from the frustration of being rendered powerless. There was nothing I could do. I did not know. I did not know that it was wrong. Even the power of my own emotions was, is, denied. Feelings disrespected, trivialised, belittled; made to feel ashamed of my anger. The pressure inside, the forbidden rage, cannot help but escape. Anger is one extreme reaction. Another is the terrible haunting of depression. Colours everything. Colours everything grey. My nights in the flat by the pet shop where the hole from my violation attracted negativity, all bad, all evil, floating in a stagnant pool. The white ice of loneliness. No sight of the future. The wind blowing against the window. Too cold, too dark. Too unhappy.
IT WAS NOT MY FAULT. Yet, I felt, I was made to feel that I was the only one who had done something wrong.
I am not the same as you.
The effects of abuse will always remain. Touched, tainted, soiled. Bullied, held down, held back, harmed. Self esteem stolen and broken. A fight to get back the pieces and rebuild. Smashed mirror, chipped fragments. Dangerous shards like needles, knives.
I am not the same as you. I was abused.
“I know people,” he says, “I could get someone to hurt him, friends of mine, outlaws. Dark angels.”
Look at all the cracks. Never be the same. I have changed. My world has changed. “I’ve been through a lot of shit. Could’ve broke me,” he murmurs, huskily, “I used to cry a lot but not much anymore.”
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