For me, the happy ending was never an option. I remember
watching a scene performed by a fellow student in my high school theatre class.
She was a very talented girl whose name escapes me now, performing a scene in
which she played a little girl hiding behind a sofa as her father screamed at
her mother, violently yelling. I remember imagining the father there, spit
flying from his foam soaked lips, shoulders tensed to his ears, his forehead
red with passionate anger. The little girl behind the sofa crying hysterically
the first time his hand pounds into her mothers face. I can see the blood
strike the carpet. I can see the gleaming satisfaction in his eyes and the
lusting for more. Watching this, imagining this, in the middle of class I
cried. I cried not for the little girl, not for the poor beaten mother, but I
cried for myself.
A kind soul found me there crying in the dark lit room and
held my hand. She explained to me how she was beaten as child and tears began
to flow down her rosy red cheeks. Justified, I thought. Her tears were
justified. Could I tell her? Could I tell this sad caring soul that I cried not
because I too had been beaten but because when I looked upon the face of this
rage filled monster I saw myself.
I cried not because I was sad, not because I was hurt, but
because I was finally excepting my fate that I would never and could never
allow myself to become that monster that I knew then, I was born to be. Every
person I see, I know I am a danger to them. Every female who looks my way is a
potential victim. Every little girl or little boy is someone I could have been
destined to hurt.
Every day I don’t try, every day I sit in my own pity is my
gift to the world. Looking back on this memory I still see my face in his. I
see the portrayal of a young girl scared, crying for help. I see the real thing
holding my hand crying from the memory of a monster.
I now cry because I am sad. Because I am afraid it is too
late. I am learning to fight this monster and I am learning to think that maybe
I could be happy. That maybe I could care for someone other than myself. I cry now,
because I am scared that while this hope grows in me, I still see my face in
his.
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