A Painful Memory

“Come on in, take a seat” said Doctor Rasheive.

As I walk in from the hall of Dr Rasheive’s office, I see the awards on the walls and think to myself that he seems a bit self-obsessed. He smiles at me but all I notice is the greasy meat smell on him, the stench of fast food is overwhelming; all I see when I look at him is the unshaven man who thinks he will know me better than I do. There is a battle going on in my brain, I ask myself should I trust this man? What will he really do for me? As the thoughts come through, I try processing them to the best of my ability but I see that a man who is this self obsessed with himself must not be very interested in me in any way other than a case study. He doesn't care about me.

I walk into his room and I must say I was impressed, he is professional. He doesn't have many personal effects in this office other than his certificates showing his dedication to this field of work. The certificates are on a cream wall, I suppose the reason the walls are cream is to create a neutral looking room, no bad but also no good showing in here. I sit down on the leather sofa which personally I thought was a little clichéd, but it was comfortable.

“How are you today Michael?”

I stare at him, I look uncomfortable

“Are you okay?”

I respond with the only words possible, “I'm okay...”

“Why are you here today?”

“I was told to speak to you about a day, a day I'd like to move on from” I say in a near whisper.

“Okay, tell me about this day, Michael, this is the only way we move past it”.

It was a dark night, in the middle of December. There had been snow showing on the grass but the day moved on slowly. The weather was bitter, it was terribly cold. It was said on the news that a snow storm was coming in from the west, and that we should expect a slight electrical difficulty at times. I was only 10 at the time, there were no neighbours, just the woodland surrounding our home. It was as if we lived in the middle of nowhere or we were the last people alive in the world.

You see, my father. When I was a boy he was rather ‘hands on’ with me. I was locked in a cupboard or a wardrobe when punishment was needed, as a young boy I thought of it as hazing, teaching me right from wrong but it seemed I was the darkness for a large period of my life. But one night he came home drunk, I was still being punished for actions from the day and it seemed as if my parents had forgot about me. When my father arrived home he realised I was still locked in the wardrobe following the kitchen room. He didn't care what happened to me, if I was hungry, tired or dehydrated all he cared about was his skewered idea of punishment, his idea of right from wrong was being upheld. So when I heard the door unlocking I thought that I was being let free, but when he opened the door I noticed a difference within him, a difference in his stench, he reeked of alcohol but the worst part is the look on his face, he wasn't phased by the look of my starving body, the tears drying on my face. It was nothing but a look of pure fury. There was not a blink, just a state as I noticed his pupils dilate. He picked me up by the neck and the first punch is what hurt the most. After he knocked me down I was instantly lifted to the point where my feet weren't touching the ground, I begged my father to stop as my eyes started watering, the pure shock of the first punch stunned me to the extent of my body was in shock, it took for him to pick me up again to regain my ability to speak. As I was begging him the look on his face didn't change, the glazed look upon his face made my blood turn cold as I realised there was nothing I could do; I simply had no way of stoping his rage shown upon me, he simply attacked.

Mother was asleep, unaware of all of what was happening so there was nobody to stop him. All there was’ was a grin on his face as if he was enjoying the sound of my body being beaten, the warm blood splashing upon his face and hands from the cut caused by the man who made me.

He kicked and punched me to the point where breathing wasn't an option. All I could see in the near future was death.

I was slammed against the wall of the cupboard with his hands around my throat.

The light within my eyes started fading but he let go. My father stated that if this was to be let out, if I told anyone that he would do it again but the only difference is that he wouldn't stop. He would take my life.

I notice that the doctor is paying close attention to my story; his eyes are fixed firmly on my face.

I continue: “fate played in my hands, the cards were soon against my father as it seemed. Soon after this life changing experience, my father was struck down by a car. As sad as I was, as much as I miss my dad I am glad he is gone because no matter, what he assaulted me. He broke me as a person. I was scared for my life and I still am, but it is only now I have come to terms of this abuse, I have now got to the point where I know I need to tell my story” I declare.

“Okay, I'm happy you've told me this Michael. I am very proud of you and it seems to me that we have a lot of work to do…”