Remembrance, Amos #3

Take me back to the time when we heard but did not understand; when we did what we did out of curiosity and wonder. Nothing more, nothing less. Ignorance is bliss, they say, and whoever “they” are, they’re not wrong. To those who manage to hold on to it past adulthood, bravo and congratulations. How did you do it? No, don’t tell me. It’s too late for me; share your secrets with everyone else.

Perhaps a story. Yes, we all love stories. I’ve been in the grip of a story for too long not to tell it. It haunts my conscious and my subconscious, both my waking thoughts and my dreams. I’ve endured too much and broken through the illusion of sanity.

I stand on the other side, watching the world through a glass, shattered but impenetrable. Its shards come together and apart in uncountable ways every minute, every second.

But the story. What story? My story. Which one? I have many. We all do. Which one are you? How are you? No, wait. I don’t care. Or do I?

Where were we? Where was I? On the floor of a haunted hallway, littered with memories and shattered illusions of safety. On the floor, where my father broke my arm.

The pain was all I knew for a long time. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t anything. But I think I screamed. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up in my old room with a makeshift cast and sling. Still in pain. Always in pain.

I was in bed for almost a week, unwilling to walk or even stand. My father. Broke my arm. He didn’t question, didn’t hesitate. I knew he was capable of violence–I’d seen it, I’d heard it, but I hadn’t considered the implications.

He’d never hit me before; never so much as slapped my wrist. I’d heard him hit my mother only the once, and I’d seen the result–her, dead on the living room floor with blood pooling around her head. That was when I ran. Shattered illusions. Memories glued to these walls and stained into the floorboards. Every second in this house brought a new memory, a new knife to my mind.

I know I’ve gone mad, but I think it started then, when my father decided he could break me. My resolve to prove him wrong only proved him right in the end because here I am, mentally and physically broken. Forever. It’s my fault, but it’s his, too.

Kieran brought me food in my week of resolute non-activity. Twice a day, because I guess breakfast doesn’t count as a meal.

Vasilis didn’t visit at all. I’m sure it was part of his plan. I’d been there less than a day, and I tested his limits as I’d done countless times before, and I lost like always. Only this time, he made it clear that the stakes are higher. I should have known.

Kieran was the one to look over my arm and try to reset it. I didn’t want to know when or why or how long he’d known how to do it, even if it was only a superficial knowledge.

“You shouldn’t test him,” Kieran told me at the end of the week. He hadn’t spoken more than a “Good morning” or “Good night” to me since my arm was broken.

“I can’t help it,” I said honestly. My reactions were instinctive, and I hadn’t needed to temper them until now. It would take more than a broken arm to stop me from talking back to Vasilis, no matter how afraid of him I was.

“You’ll have to force yourself into silence, then,” Kieran responded. Whoever said silence is golden was wrong: it’s quicksilver–always shifting, never settling, as easily a damnation as a salvation. Never to tell which, when.

He recast my arm, reslung it, and left me alone. Before he shut the door, Kieran told me one more thing.

“Your friend, Raven, was seen outside the house this morning. She didn’t approach the house or anything, she just watched it. I thought you should know.” He turned to leave and turned to me once more. “Don’t let Vasilis know I told you. He wants to surprise you if she gets the courage to knock.”

If she gets the courage? When.

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