5 August 2012
It’s strange, when I write about my youngest years words flow freely. The images of my childhood are crystal clear: Images of my parents fighting over the banister, my mother, somehow with the stronger hand, and my father struggling to keep him self from falling down the stairs. My mother, storming in from the kitchen, wine spilling over the rim of the glass, before she hurls it at me in fury, my uncle screaming for her to calm down. The blue lights from police cars, coming to pick one of my parents up from yet another fight. My self, three years old, singing my self to sleep, face buried into my cats stomach, tears wetting my cats fur as I try to forget the pain, and pretend I can’t hear the shouting. But when I try to write about when my mother left me, words are not to be found. I simply can’t remember.
Well, to be honest, that’s a lie. I do remember. I remember seeing the back of my mother, leaving without a kiss, without a tear. I remember my own tears, and my struggle to keep them back, in fear of flooding the airport, hardly knowing better at the age of four. I remember my father looking at me, saying don’t be stupid, you can’t miss someone who has just left. But that’s it. That’s all I remember. And from that moment on, memories are like old films, played too many times so the picture is just a blur. Birthdays came and went, though my mother never showed. Au Pairs came and went, though my father never showed, expect for the occasional weekends. School years came and went, accompanied by the loneliness, the teasing, the odd stares and the feeling of being wrong.
But nothing changed, I never felt alive. I was the odd girl, with long blond hair, a posh British accent, excellent grades, sad eyes and an empty face. The odd girl who never did much, crept along the walls and never spoke of home.
I was nothing but an empty shell. A shy smile with abandoned eyes. A laughter with no heart. I was nothing ..
Continues .....
The Past I • Opuss № I