Echoes

                                                    Echoes

  Words carry a toxic weight. They infect you, sear through you, stab into the very core of your being. Words are power. Just a few choice syllables can make or break a person. I love you or I hate you. Words form the basis of our lives, perceptions, and of ourselves. They carry within them a settling quality; once they take root, they are forever. Of this, I am living proof.

    I was eight and a half when I moved here with my mom to live in the home of Bambi, a woman whom my mother had met online. Bambi was a woman of no mercy, or of very little.  To those she cared for, Bambi could be very kind. However, one wrong move, and you were out.

    In addition to a sort of charisma, that drew people in like sheep to a shepherd, Bambi had come into a great deal of money when her mother died. This came with an overwhelming amount of influence over others. She was the center of our universe, the sun, and we were her dingy planets. She was the gravity in our lives, holding us together, keeping our feet firmly on the ground. And when one defies gravity, they can only fall.

    Unfortunately for me and for our relationship, I was just the sort of person who loves freedom and hates being controlled. I was one of those wild spirits that simply cannot, and will not, be contained. I was everything Bambi hated. We were doomed from the start.

    Bambi did not like me, a fact she did not attempt to hide. I, inevitably, did not hesitate to return the sentiment. However, Bambi was far more vocal in her distaste than most other adults I had met. As time droned on, such things as being called a witch, evil, selfish and bratty, stupid, and a monster, became commonplace in my day-to-day life. I was a slob, not to mention disgusting, because I did not use a spoon when eating spaghetti. I was a lying thief for sneaking some leftover Halloween candy from the garage. The list went on…and on. It has said that when one hears something incessantly, it becomes attached to them, in a way. And, just as they say, every remark clung to me with immovable adhesion while I meandered through the months, oblivious.

    It all came to a head when I was nearly ten years old. I had spent the day outside and ended up getting lost for about an hour and a half. Therefore, I was late. This was, obviously, a bad idea, particularly where Bambi was concerned.

    That night my mom and I had a huge fight, as apparently I had worried her a great deal. Thus, I was a selfish brat that needed to be punished. I was less than thrilled at the prospect of once again being in trouble for something beyond my control. It was too much. I burst out…and ended up telling my mother I hated her. This was, of course, a terrible mistake, and destined to become one of my biggest regrets. Then again, hindsight is always twenty twenty…The morning after, I woke late and made my way sleepily down the stairs on a quest for something to eat. Like any other almost ten year old, I  dove straight for my Halloween candy when  I realized none of the adults were in the room to stop me. Wrappers crinkled and were thrown aside as I dug through the treats. Just as I was cramming a crunch bar into my mouth, a voice abruptly stopped me in my tracks.

    “What are you doing?” It was Bambi. I frowned a bit.

    “Eating. I haven’t had breakfast yet.” 

    “So you eat candy?”

  “It’s good,” I reasoned.

    “How could you be eating at a time like this?” I was puzzled, my stomach beginning to tie in knots.

    “A time like what?” She was scowling at me, a look of cool indifference, oddly mixed with white-hot loathing in her eyes. Her glance was insidious, almost sinister. I suppressed a shudder. She spoke again, her voice oddly gentle in contrast to the harshness that lined her face.

  “Your mom’s gone.”

    The world was still as it whirred around me. Just three simple words and my universe crumbled, exploded, fell away. I was baffled.

    “What do you mean?” Even breathing was a strain by this point. I could not seem to process any of what was happening. Another chocolate was numbly lifted to my lips. My brain was fuzzy, as if the words had created a thick fog within my mind. I was scared, too, inwardly trembling, caught in my own mental earthquake.

    “She came downstairs last night upset last night and said she wanted to go for a drive…she still hasn’t come back. Did something happen last night?” I could’ve sworn there was a slight glint in her eyes at this statement, however the detail seemed superfluous at the time and was duly dismissed in the face of my own personal apocalypse. My vision spun as my mind flashed back to the night before. The words “I hate you” reverberated in my ears.

    “Yes,” I whispered. And I confessed.

    The rest of the day passed in a slow drum of agony. Sobs and tears and waiting (always waiting)  drowned the hours. My life had fallen apart at the seams. I was terrified and guilty and it was then at my most vulnerable that Bambi struck.  My mother was, she said, probably dead. The cops were looking for her; everyone was.  The whole mess, Bambi told me, was my fault.  Bambi told me that I was going to juvie, where the orphans that nobody wanted went, and that I was very much unwanted.  Over and over these words were drilled into my skull.  Forever passed in two days.

    Sunday fell upon me with an air of gloomy finality.  I was kept home from Sunday school and informed that the police would be coming to talk to me and that I had to write a statement saying exactly what had happened.  I was filled to the brim with terror, but had resigned myself.  It was my fault. Bambi was right; of course she was right.  She had always been right.  I deserved what I was getting and worse.  Revenge is a dish best served cold, and what I was chewing felt frozen.  The door opened.

    I should have felt the world flip, should have simultaneously experienced the topsy-turvy sensation of double betrayal , of two swords stuck in my back and all that I had accepted being thrown in my face.  However, when my eyes found my mother’s form, the only thing I knew was this incredible surge of relief.  I bounded forward and pulled my mom into a tight hug.  Ten billion apologies and I love you’s flew out in a matter of moments, then the confusion descended upon me.

    It was Bambi’s idea.  My mom had been hurt that night and Bambi thought it would be a good idea to teach me a lesson.  I had to learn after all.  My mom stayed at a hotel and was shopping while they made me think she was missing or dead.  My mom apologized eventually for what occurred, but the damage was done.

    Since, my mom and I moved out about a year later and I became who I am today.  Though my battle ended, my fight never stops.  The words are still there, haunting me, popping up perhaps fifty or a hundred times a day.  It is a daily struggle I doubt I will ever be alleviated of.  I would like to have a nice long talk with whoever said, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.” They were dead wrong.