Repose Memories (reposememories) wrote in repose, @ 2017-06-06 19:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | cisco delgado, jack penhaligon, patrick gunster, ~plot: memories |
[Memory]
What: Memory.
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing it.
Warning, this memory contains: Some child abuse.
You are four years, nine months, one week, and five days old. You are quite the big boy. You can't quite read, not much more than your name, which, if you're honest, is only memorization (you are honest. You're a good boy, as well as a big one. You tell everyone you've got it memorized), but you've high hopes that by this time week, you'll be flying through the Beatrix Potter book you bought yourself with pocket money. (It was your first purchase and it was yesterday. You went with a mate from school and his mother to the bookshop. You paid for most of it, anyway. You collect coins (and rocks and bugs (the bugs you leave behind, because it's where they live)) you find in the mud in the garden. You're learning to tell them apart (the coins; you know how to differentiate between insects already).) Today, however, you're not thinking too much upon Peter Rabbit. No. Right now, you are hiding. You manage to remain very still and very quiet. No one even knows you're there.
Mother is taking her tea. You're under the bed. You don't realize you've left little muddy footprints on the threadbare rug. Not yet. And you think yourself safe. You've just met a spider and you're letting him walk on your open palms. You try not giggle, even though it tickles quite a bit. You're both hiding, so you bite your lip and suppress the tickling. You lie your head on the dusty carpet and the next thing you know, you're crossing a bridge. It swings dangerously over a drop. Sheer cliffsides dissipate to white mist. You crawl across splintered wood boards on hands and knees, because you're halfway across, and you know, if you stop now, you'll die. Your heart is beating fast. You crawl as fast as you're able, in spite of the splinters that catch your palms and knees and shins.
You see green. It's a sliver, floating in the hazy gray air. You're close. You're almost there. You've got to wee. You can't stop. You crawl. It's frantic. And just before you manage to reach the muddy hill of solid ground, someone screams. The moldy ropes of the bridge begin to unravel. You can already feel that you're beginning to fall, the boards are coming out from under your knees.
You wake up to the carpet burning under your chin and arms, and you're dangled above the floor, in the open light of the room, by the ankle, before Father drops you onto the bed. Your skin beneath your trousers burns, where his grip was. Tea spills, which makes Mother cry out. Your spider—your friend—he's a smear on your freckled palm. You start to weep as well. You didn't mean to kill him. You didn't mean to hurt him. Mother is up, ensconced in her pillows, her skin waxy and unblemished, unlike yours. (You don't look her in the eyes. You don't like doing that. But, you watch her lips.) She's saying something tearfully, but it's drowned out by Father, who, rather suddenly, is roaring at you. Fear makes you go tense as spittle flecks your face. He smells like he does when he is angry. You think perhaps you've sat in some spilt tea when your bottom grows warm, but, Father is screaming still. You've weed yourself, and you don't feel safe any longer. You feel shame. Humiliation. You want to be anywhere else. This is not how a big boy behaves.
But, you don't yell and you don't fight back. Instead, you imagine that you're somewhere very quiet and very warm and very safe. You imagine that Mother's voice stops in her throat without choking her. And, screwing yours eyes shut, you imagine that you cannot hear Father. You're amazed it works. (Then again, you're quite powerful, quite clever, even for a boy as little as you are.) You smile, your tears gone (though not forgotten. No, because you've got bogeys in your nose now). It's a nice blanket of silence. It falls over you. You open your eyes like little gold coins. The spider from under the bed is still on your palm and you haven't the heart to wipe him off. You hold your hand against your chest in a cradle. Your bottom's still wet, but you don't mind. It's quiet now and, even though Father's face is still contorting with rage, you don't hear his words, so you don't fear him. You know he can't touch you here.
You begin to imagine Peter Rabbit is there with you. You're very good at this. You see him with stunning clarity, down to his little brown whiskers and blue button-top. You wave hello to him (with the clean hand) as he hops under the bed, between Father's legs, and you giggle as his ears disappear. He's off to get himself some carrots, you know, and you forget your nightmare on the bridge. You hop off of Mother's bed, though it's a scary jump to the floor. You pick at where your trousers stick to your bottom and your thighs, and you try to crawl back under the bed.
But, your bubble breaks. All of the volume comes rushing back in. It breaks over your head. It sucks you under, into its fold. You're grabbed again and it burns more this time. Father's hand is on the skin of your arm and he jerks you upright. You scream like you've been gutted. He drops you out of what you don't realize is alarm. You break for the door. And before anyone can catch you, you're gone, soggy trousers and all. You go to your favorite shrub in the garden. You crawl in amid pricks and needles. There's a little more weeping, but you're not prone to dwelling. Eventually, you remember tomorrow you will be four years, nine months, one week, and six days old. You think about that as you tug red curls from brambles. And you think it's truly wonderful. You spend the rest of the evening trying to catch a frog.