Childhood Memories

by X

yourself from what is going on downstairs. You can hear their voices getting louder, sometimes followed by the slamming of doors. This wasn’ttain it wouldn’t be the last one. Ever since your parents split up, it felt like you had a new ‘stepbetween them, they all looked similar and they seemed especially skilled in arguing with your dad. Not that you would describe your dad as a wonderful man, he tended to be very impulsive and quick-tempered.

Elastic by Anonymous

I poured my soul into the palm of your hand, with enough speed and vulnerability that you managed to turn it into some kind of substance for you to toy with. The way you shut your hand closed when you knew you were holding the most important parts of me. You knew it, and yet still after having prodded and poked, you still threw me away like a piece of gum that had gotten stuck to your palm.

Like gum, I had made myself elastic for you. Whatever you wanted, I became it. A replacement for your lover, a warm touch, a friend. I distorted myself to become the missing piece of your puzzle, unaware of how sharp your edges were.

But unfortunately, unlike gum, I am not that durable. I break when chewed too many times. And although I stay long enough to get stuck in your hair, I will also hand you the scissors so you can cut me out, for I cannot stand not being wanted.

a loud bang that brings you back into reality. You move yourself to the corner of the bedroom and plug your ears in an attempt to drown out the noise. You want to go home, back to your mom, where everything will be okay again. A tear rolls down your cheek at the thought of her. Oh, how you miss her. Then you hear footsteps coming up the stairs, your heart starts racing, you quickYour dad opens your bedroom door as you pretend you’re asleep. He looks around the room, his gaze lingering on you. As you try to breathe calmly, he closes the door and goes back down. There, the argument immediately resumes.

what killed them?

I open my eyes again, remembering that the depths of my soul do not allow me to see into the past. As I breach to stand up, something catches - into place. So I leave. I know now to come back honour the harrowed souls of those who died paying a big beer worth of an entrance fee.

You turn on your bedside light and look around your room. It’s your room but it has nothing personal in it. Sure, it has toys and books, but none of them are yours. It’s like they tell a different story. This is not your story, this is not your home. A home is supposed to make you feel warm and safe. This house does the exact opposite. It carries many of the worst memories, you will never truly feel comfortable here.

"You should not have to experience this"

“Luckily,” you comfort yourself, “it’s just one more night.” Still, you want to go home. To your real home, where you can truly feel at ease. You should not have to experience this, it’s not fair. You were just a child. You are just a child.

Despite all this, I only noticed how disposable I was to you when I sought the warmth of another. I had nuzzled into your palm so much that bending to the creases of your hand felt familiar, and who doesn’t love familiarity? So I stayed until the smell of familiarity merged with the stench time.

I am free from you, now. But it’s funny you see, because despite how infuriating you are, a part of me craves the calmness I only experienced when we were lying next to each other, limbs tangled with one another. The way you used to look at me, between brief mentions of your girlfriend and seemingly sincere promises that you’d want the best for me. How does it feel knowing thatlocked innocently the same way our legs would on your bed.

Despite how set you were on crushing me, I’ve built myself back up, and I no longer see myself as the piece of gum you were once holding onto. Right now, I can actually say that I’m doing good. Like actually good. Not the kind of ‘good’ I used to say with a melancholic air like I was begging you to see through me and know I was in pain. Not the ‘good’ I would use to describe you to my friends when in reality you’d been hurting me.

I’m doing good. And I feel the need to repeat it until the words get tired of being written because I know you never wanted to hear those words from me. You needed me in pain to continue feeding your fragile ego, so I would run back to you like a lost little girl. So better believe I will be shouting these next few words from the clocktower, where we once held each other late into the night: I am doing good, and more importantly, I am doing good without you.