All to Ashes

 

My story does not begin as most do. Most have a catalyst, something to begin the conflict. Mine has always been, engrained in me, deeper than my soul. For when I was young, I thought there was something wrong with me, some reason that my mother left me, alone, in the house with only my drunken father to care for me. And sadly, now I know that there is a reason, that there is something terribly wrong with me.   I am different, too different for words. I cannot speak.

            I know English full well, seven languages for that matter, but I will never speak them. My mind doesn’t work that way. I am intelligent; I know things, things that others will never know that I know. Yet, that is alright with me, for I am more than an introvert. I am a sufferer of Huntington’s disease. I can hear, but cannot speak. It seemed as if people forgot that I was completely cognizant of what they were saying, and was almost as if they believed I was deaf. I know what they say of me, yet I cannot say anything in defense of my name, of my dignity. Though I cannot speak, I can write.

            I found my passion for writing when I was eight. I had come home from the facility in which they teach me to recognize sounds and pair them with words, which I understood. My vocabulary was extensive for that even of an average eight year old, but I just could not use those muscles to speak. It was as if they were in a constant state of paralysis. I picked up a pen; I knew that I could write more than just a sentence. I ended filled an entire page, a page full of my dreams for the future, my fancies for a normal life. Thus, my stories began, pouring off the pages, stretching into worlds unheard by the common ear. They reached lands where common fairy tales dared not go. They reached lands where even the imprudent would cringe and cower to hear such bold language as I dared use.

            I always hid my stories from my father, though. He was always drunk, usually intoxicated to the point at which he would simply sleep and leave me alone. But, there were those days in which he would return home, angry, worked up for no reason, and I would wordlessly cower before him. He would stare menacingly at me, as if I had wronged him, but I never had. I made his meals; I cleaned his house, and never received a simple “thank you” in return. Humph, as though I’d expected one, and it was not like I could respond anyway. Yet, there he would stand, every inch of his six feet, six inches looming over me, daring me to take a step in any direction. I would stay still, wordlessly staring as he took one, two, three, giant steps toward my fragile form. I would turn, quickly, and run, as fast as I could to my room, and take shelter under my bed. He would find me, drag me out, and whip me mercilessly with his belt. I learned pretty quickly to avert my eyes when he was in the room, and to quickly, and gracefully, carry out his angry orders.

            I never showed anyone the welts. After each “session”, my back would be enflamed and raw for weeks. I had scars - white stripes down my back, and a constant reminder that I was nothing to my father. I had never written of this abuse to anyone, either. I knew that he would beat me to death if he found out that I had begged for help. He was aggressive, and did not a care at all for me. He would leave me outside to die, in the dead of winter, if he’d only had the mental capacity.

            Yet, he was not always angry. The rest of the time, he would just sleep. I knew that this situation could not go on, that I would die, cramped up here, with an abusive father, a startlingly absent mother, and a terrifyingly nonexistent future. I needed to go somewhere with my life. I was tired of being beaten, and living constantly in fear. And now, that brings me to a second point.

            I have fears. They are normal fears, yet they are so exaggerated in their form that I cannot conceive what I would do if they were to confront me, head on. I have a strange fear of fire. It consumes me, and I cannot even bear the burning of a candle. I am afraid of opening up to people, more than anything. Obviously, this “opening up” would be via paper, but I am frightened, petrified of what they may ask.

            And so, I stumbled on, blindly, through the days that so dissolved into themselves that I neither cared nor knew that time or day. I served my father, I learned at the facility, over and over and over and over again. And I was beaten.

            Finally, I’d had enough, all that I could take. I’d go to them. I’d confront my fears. I’d face the dreadful consequences that this decision may yield. The next day, May 9, I wrote a note to my teacher, then handed it to her. I averted my eyes, and took a seat as she read, her brow furrowing a little more with each line.

            All night long, I had fought with myself. I had told myself that my life would change for the better, that maybe my father would be found out and punished. I was angry at him for all he’d forced me to endure.

            She asked quietly, “How long has this been going on?”

            I scribbled, “My whole life,” on the sheet of paper that she pushed towards me.

            The furrows in her brow deepened more, and she said gently, tenderly, “May I see the scars?”

            I frowned; I didn’t like opening up to people, and I certainly didn’t like literally opening up to people. I stood, turned away from her, and pulled up my shirt, so that every terrible scar was visible. I felt so open, so insecure, so unprotected. She examined the scars, the rough, angry red, slashes down my back from yesterday. She touched one, ever so gently, and I winced.

            “Why have you never told me of this?”

            “I was afraid,” I scribbled.

            “This will be totally anonymous on your part, but your father is going to be put behind bars. Just think, a child, especially a child with such a condition, being so brutally treated. He shall get his share, and more,” she murmured as she picked up the phone. She telephoned the officer in town, and he informed her that he would be going to my house immediately to arrest my father. I felt guilty, but reveled in the sense of freedom that came from opening up to someone. Mrs. Guilek, as was her name, guided me to her car, where we drove to my home, where the officer was to meet us.

            The sight that confronted us was so terrifying to me that I can barely describe it. My home, the place where I’d lived forever, was engulfed by flames. The officer stood, calling for the fire department and other officers on his radio. I watched in horror as the roof came crashing down, upon my home: the stories I’d written, the treasures that I’d stowed away since I was a baby, and… my father. Fear and sadness flooded through me; as cruel as he was to me, I realized something at that point: I loved him. It was the kind of relationship where I pitied him, where I imagined him as something more than the drunken failure that he was. I broke down, and tears flowed down my cheeks as sobs silently racked my frail body. He was my father. He was dead. He had been brought to justice.

            They silently led my numb body away from the scene. Mrs. Guilek took me in. The days and weeks that followed were filled with silent wishes and tearful prayers. Why was I the person who I was?

Mrs. Guilek and I had agreed: we would try to track down my birth mother. It took months, and we waited, watched, and prayed. She had listened as Mrs. Guilek had explained on the phone her purpose of calling; she was willing to come.

On the day that she was to arrive, I was dressed in a new dress, with flowers about the neck and a sash in the back. There were so many things that I longed to tell her; thus I had spent days composing a letter in which she could know it all – my thoughts, my fears, my dreams, and my longing that she would accept me. Mrs. Guilek received her cordially, and seated her upon the sofa to read it, after a short, muted conversation. I watched her anxiously, for she had taken little notice of me upon entering. Her forehead creased as she read, and her eyes filled with tears. She read, tearfully, and raised her eyes to rest on my face, which was sweet, and childish, yet had known such sorrow. She stood, stepped to my side, and enclosed me in an embrace such as I have never felt. I was tense, at first, than relaxed as I realized that all was reconciled. Nearly a decade after being separated, we were together again. She and I forgave in that hug, she herself, and I, my father.

She stayed to luncheon with Mrs. Guilek and me, and then we set out, hand in hand, out to our future, and the future appeared bright. When all was burnt down, reconciliation came. I wondered if the reason I was able to reconstruct myself was because all was already turned to ashes; the groundwork was laid, the foundation being built, and I learned to love again. My life did not burn to ashes; it conformed to love.

 

Impressum

Texte: Ariana Suzanne
Lektorat: Taylor G.
Übersetzung: none
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 06.10.2014

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Widmung:
To the people that inspire me.