Soulmates

Soul mates


Do you believe in soul mates?
No, I don’t mean all that lovey-dovey mushy stuff. But just someone who thinks the way you do and knows exactly how you feel, some people reckon everyone has one.  Mine’s was a special case, someone’s idea of a sick and twisted joke, a cruel trick.

Surely I can’t be the only one who thinks the way I do. Thoughts whirl round my head like never ending spinning tops, but colourless, my mind like lace, weaving itself into impossible knots.

I’ve never really found someone who really knows what I feel, how I think. Frustration turns to fury and devastation as I search for the words, words that will make them see, make them understand, these words do not exist.

Feelings flood my mind every thought a droplet leading to a small stream leading to a fast flowing river, I’m drowning in my own self.
My head is only slightly above water. I keep swimming knowing every new wave could finish me, maybe it would be for the best anyway, and maybe I’d rather be dead than have to go through it all again.

I’m running to escape my self , to escape him , knowing one day I’ll have to face me,  what will I say, how will I cope ? My brain is a motor way, the spaghetti junction, a billion cars on a road, to an unknown destination. A missing map, causing chaos on the roads .My road is almost certain, I will always be, his special little girl.

Does anyone really know how it feels for one living in a world of flamingos when one is simply a duck, no body like’s ducks they’re too common, to annoying, to normal. He said I wasn’t normal, I was special, his special girl. He was right there was nothing normal about my life. Maybe it was my own fault, he always said I made him do it, that I asked for it.

On the outside I blend in, a murky grey, being smothered by radiant rainbows of pretty pinks and brilliant blues. But on the inside my mind is a million mirrors, reflecting remembering, realising. My mirrors reflect what could have been, what has been and what might have been.
What may have been , did it really happen I don’t remember , why can’t I remember, a stab , a flood to make me forget.
Hazy memories like ribbons, twisting, winding. Why won’t they stop?
Don’t they realise, I don’t want to remember, why cant they leave me be. They’re on a mission, 3 times a day the flood takes the pain away, but as it is absorbed, the ribbons start to form again thread by thread.
Winding and weaving to a perfect bow, until I can do nothing but remember and realise.
Enclosed forgotten. Look into my eyes, a lake of green to hide the bars, the bars which restrain me. Constant restraint, ‘keep it all inside, don’t tell anyone, it’s our little secret.

Tight white fabric physically restrains me know, buckle upon buckle to enclose me, tight like your embrace, sickening and disgusting are your hands, like buckles , upon buckles upon buckles. Your arms like chains, and I was your prisoner. 

Bars seem to materialise before my gaze, they were always in my presence, and I just didn’t see them. As I tug and scratch at the steel and the padded walls, as I throw my self at the mercy of the concrete floor the pain the agony, still a million times more a comfort than your hand on my shoulder.

‘A danger to the public’ he said, me some justice, but then you can always rely on men for an honest judgment can’t you?

‘It’s for your own good.’  She said  , what would have been for my own good , would have been to be rescued from the clutches of him , that monster, but then again , I made it up , didn’t I . I’m only a kid, with a big imagination. Well this was certainly imaginative wasn’t it?  At least now I have a reason for punishment, Unjust as it may be.

He had it coming.

Every time I close my eyes I see his face , I remember it looming over me  and me , switching off, while my head is imploding in on me , my mind as eternal as space , as galaxies and stars of shooting pain and despair orbit my sad excuse for a life. My mind is eternal, but my body is running out of places to hide. He thinks it’s a game at first, shouting ‘where’s my special little girl? It’s time to play a game’. But he soon tires of searching and becomes angry, he becomes over come with rage. He finds me, usually hiding under the stairs and drags me out by my hair or my wrist, me throwing myself violently to the floor, desperately clutching door frames and radiators in an attempt to save myself. ‘You should be grateful ‘he’d say ‘to have someone who loves you as much as I do.

I suppose as a child a daily experience becomes normality, routine.
Not a chance, something inside me knew he was wrong, the threats increased as I got older, ‘don’t tell anyone, they won’t believe you any way, they’ll just think you’re dirty. ‘
He made me feel dirty, as I begged him to stop; he used to say I made him do it, like I forced him.
I knew this wasn’t ok, whilst all the other little girls where playing with dolls, I was inside, breaking my heart everyday, hoping he wouldn’t knock on my door.  A voice screaming on the inside that it couldn’t take anymore, I didn’t want to be special anymore, I wanted to be a duck again. This couldn’t go on; so many times I wanted to hang my self with my little pink skipping ropes. Hundreds of times I barricaded my door with a dolls house a chair, anything, I feared not of the monster under my bed, but of the knock on my door at night.

As I got older I started to eat more and more and cut myself with razors and pinch and bite myself to leave marks, partly so that he would see and be repulsed and not want to touch me anymore, partly so someone would see, so someone would rescue me  hear my silent plea for mercy , and also to get the badness out , he said I made him do it , and what he did was bad, so it must be something bad inside me that made him do it, as the blood trickled out I felt the badness inside release itself, a  temporary high, the badness was never gone , because he still said , that I was dirty and that I asked for it. When he saw the marks I made he sighed, and said I needed to be taught a lesson.

Every time the flood goes I have to remember all over again , every few hours I relive the horrors of the last 17 years , 17 years in 3 minutes flashing like a movie in my mind , with glazed eyes they think I don’t see, they think I made it up , ‘it’ll come out they say . They all think a sob story’ll get ‘em off’. A sob story ha… ha…  I wish. 

He used to say we were soul mates, when I screamed and cried, he said I was silly, and that what he did was an act of love. He loved me, he loved me.
He said he understood me, that he knew exactly how I felt, the way I thought.
He said I was lucky.
Lucky, lucky to have found something some people never find in a life time. They are the lucky ones.
Soul mates.
One day when I came home from school, he was the only one there, the day before I had tried to tell people , anyone , but they said , I was just imaginative and had thought this all up.
He was standing in the kitchen, he kept asking why I had to tell everyone our secret, he said that now, everyone knew then I couldn’t be his special little girl anymore. For only a split second I felt relief, like finally he would go, like the badness inside me had finally gone , But then I saw the familiar glimmer in his eye. He winked at me I burst in to tears I started screaming at the tops of my lungs bellowing , screaming for some one anyone , anyone to help me. I ran toward the back door, grabbing at the handle, twisting and twisting he came up really close to and, stroked the keys along my face. He pinned me up against the cold glass door. He started kissing my neck in a filthy manner.

My hand independently reached to the side, discarding all thoughts and reason, smooth shiny, sharp. A flash of silver; a lake of red.

And then it was all over.  But did I make it up. 
Thoughts whirl through my head like never ending spinning, tops , colourful and free.

Hmm, soul mates, not all they’re cracked up to be eh?