I’ve never much minded the dark. I think maybe some people find their fears hiding in there, but I find peace in that nothingness. It’s the light that petrifies me. In the shadows, there are places I can hide. Where I’m invisible. It’s the place where I don’t exist to anyone. It’s when the lights come on that I’m naked and vulnerable to the evils that surround me. It’s the space where I am seen. Where every dark corner is exposed, and so am I.
There’s love in the light, too, some of the time. I’m kept clean and fed in those moments when it floods into the spaces around me. I’m nurtured there. Loved. Those are the few moments I can stand the illumination, but I much prefer my place in the dark. I can’t imagine my life any other way, and to be honest, I don’t remember a life before this one. I can’t count the number of years I’ve spent here in this space, growing up surrounded by the turbulent waters of fear and love swirling together at some point to create my place in this realm of existence, and I do have one. Here the nights are spent in pure blackness, and the days, well, the days teeter around on a top. Everything keeps spinning when all is right in the world, but once it begins to wobble, the fun is over. I can tell by the weight of her steps as they make their way to the top of the stairs that today is not one of the good days. The determination is made clearer with each footfall and punctuated by the door flung into the wall behind it. I know what is coming. I know it’s why I’m here.
Huddled on the corner of my bed, the one luxury afforded to me, I attempt to fade into the wall and hide from the light. Maybe it won’t be able to touch me here, but history proves otherwise. There will be no reprieve from what is to come, and it is my burden to bear. This is the place I hold in this world, and it’s one only I can fulfill. I am the punishment. I am the place where the pain finds the light. I am the edge of death just for her. My life exists so that she may feel free from the evil that attempts to drown her. She can’t help herself, but I can help her. And each time I do, I know there is someone else out there who is saved from the pain and torment of her anger for a little bit longer. How many have I provided sanctuary over the years and allowed them to walk free from the hate she carries for them? Countless and so many more will never know how I am their hero hiding in the darkness.
My heart falls in time with the thud of her steps as they echo around me, stamping out each one in my mind causing my body to tense in anticipation. There are fifteen in total. I’ve listened to her descend them over and over again as she’s made her way to me. They always sound lighter, almost as if she’s floating as she climbs them out of this space and when she leaves me here to wait for the sound of them once more. The weight of the world reverberates with each one. They are the countdown of what is to come. For the longest time, I would try to run away from the sound, from the reality of it all. As if this weren’t my true purpose for this life. Now, I leap into its arms as if salvation awaits me there, and it does. It’s after the first five or so that the thunder in her step reminds me of why I am here. I belong to her. The one which only she could have created and loved the way she loves me, and her love for me is boundless. She always reminds me that my life is the greatest gift she has ever been given, and I know she is mine. I could want nothing else. In truth, I know of nothing else to want.
By the time she reaches the bottom of the stairs, I am standing there waiting for her. My body quaking in both fear and expectation. As she slides the key into the lock and the mechanism clicks with the sound of a false freedom, she smiles at me, and my heart thumps louder to proclaim the love she fills me with in those moments. But here I am again in the light, and the hell she can introduce me to is long-lasting and, in some cases, permanent. There are several scars that map out one story after another that I’m only the ending for, and the rest is just the means leading her to that end. My body trembles without my permission, and I do my best to calm the flesh that anticipates what is to come. Only when I look up into her eyes does the knowledge of that purpose wash over me, and I wait for her to prove it to me once again. It is the ongoing sermon mapping out the path I am led along each time someone else has stumbled from theirs. Without me, they would all be lost.
She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. I know her purpose, and I know her plans for me. There is no reason for resistance, nor would it make any difference or stop why she is here. I see her hands are empty, and as she raises one to bring down with the unknown fury behind it, I know better than to move. I stand my ground in wait of whatever it is she is here to give me. My skin burns as her hand leaves its mark clearly across my face. This is better than the days when she has her stick or belt. The pain isn’t always less when she uses her hands, but it’s more intimate, like a gift that is only mine. These are the moments I feel her love for me. I know it’s there. That’s all it could be when her hands connect with my flesh. She is willing to cause herself pain as she atones for those who have wronged her. I am only a vessel providing their forgiveness. Sanctified by the blood that is spilled in their name. She needs me. Her other hand rises, and the tears burst from my eyes as the pain spreads across the other cheek. I know if I move or attempt to hide from her assault, I will only end up chained, and the outcome will be one that leads to another mark left to scar and add to the story. Even the thought of disappointing her in that way brings shame to the surface, and I stand a little taller, waiting for the next swing of her hand to reach out to me.
The light now burning my face in the shape of her handprints, and my body wants nothing more than to climb back into the dark. It wants to hide in the safety of the shadows, but she’s not finished with me yet. The body is weak, but my love for her is strong. Those heavy steps down the stairs were a premonition of what could only be a broken body left in her wake. It is a sacrifice I am willing to offer each time she requires it.
The slaps start coming harder and faster now, as well as the tears, both mine and hers. My eyes squished tight to avoid any more damage than intended, and my face is on fire in response to her anger marking it over and over again. Had I been paying attention or opened my eyes when I felt her hesitation, instead of focusing on standing there without wavering, I could have anticipated the blow. Her fist balled tight, connecting with the soft parts of my stomach, and no amount of determination could keep me on my feet. As I fall backward, my hands grasping at the air in an attempt to catch myself but failing, I can see the instant her smile begins to fade. The light is petrifying when it is filled with her face twisted in the terror and cruelty that live within her as it is now. She keeps it hidden from the rest of the world, but she feels free to share all of herself with me. I am the only one who truly knows her. The only one who could ever truly love her.
There’s nowhere to run, and I wouldn’t dare try. I learned that one years ago in the few attempts that led to the first lessons of chains and scarring. One I had to experience several times before it sunk in and took hold as my reality. My only choice is to wait out the rage and hope it passes quickly. Almost as soon as I land on the bed, she falls on top of me. I have become a wounded animal, and she has always been the hungry predator starving and looking for her next meal. Her hands fly fast and beat down on me one by one as I feel each bruise finding its new home for a while. I try to lift my arms to cover my head, but she’s straddling my chest and holding them down with her knees. Fully exposed, the light shining bright, almost as if it is a halo above her head. She’s screaming now, and my ears are ringing from the blows. I can’t make out a word she is saying. I know they aren’t for me. They’re marked with her rage reaching beyond her and out to me. I am only the beacon calling it closer to the surface.
My body instinctively wants to curl in on itself to protect the hurt parts of me, but they are kept exposed by the angel above. The pain is only physical, and that’s something I can easily heal from. It’s when her hands wrap themselves around my throat that the body forgets about the love. Thrashing beneath her and trying to escape. Air ceasing to exist, but my lungs fight to find one more breath. It’s on the other side of her fingers, but I can’t quite reach it. Screams of hate as her eyes widen and her fingers squeeze tighter still. The edge of darkness calling out to me. It’s where I want to be. In the safety of the shadow, in the dark. There I am hidden. In the dark, the fear can’t find me. I can feel it inching closer, and I want it, to surrender to it, but she releases me just before I fall into its embrace. Gasping for breath, my lungs burning from the emptiness of moments before. My body is bruised but not broken, at least not this time.
She looks down once more before climbing off the bed and pulling the pieces of herself back together. She stands in perfection. The penance is paid, leaving purity in its place. I see myself shaking before I feel it, and the tears fall from my face as I pull myself upright to look at her. One last deep breath and she smiles down at me. I’ve done my best, and that makes her happy. I can see the pride in her when she looks at me. I know I’m her favorite out of all of us. As she turns and takes out the key once more, I try to pull myself up to my feet, my lungs burning and my throat dry, but I still manage a whisper.
“Don’t leave me.”
With a smile, she turns and wraps me into her arms, and at that moment, my world is complete. She loves me so much it hurts. She is mine, and I am her favorite.
