A Flashback

A Story by PhthtaloGreen

Just something I wrote when feeling a little sad :)

I don’t remember how it started, just that every time I think of my mother I have a flash back of being laid in bed, wearing a dressing gown. My mother pushes the door open without turning the knob, making the door give a horrifying scream of refusal, waking me from my sleep. She enters the room and walks straight over to me, yelling things I don’t care to remember. In a second she rips the duvet from me and strips me completely naked, repeatedly demanding I show her where I self-harmed in the loudest possible voice she could manage. I struggled and tried to push her from me whilst grabbing at my clothing to retain any last shreds of dignity I had. This only maddened her more, she began yelling that everything was a lie, that I told people I cut to get them to pity me, that she was a good mother and didn't deserve such a selfish, twisted daughter. I began crying and pleading that she left my room and, as usual, this only fuelled her rage, she began beating my bare body in every place she could manage until she’d let out all her anger. When she left my room I laid there for hours, perfectly still, imagining I were a dead body. She’d come into my room in the morning and yell at me for over sleeping when I had school, she’d see me laying there exactly as she’d left me. She’d see the bruises she’d made against my lily white skin and feel completely ashamed. She’d come over to me, realise I was gone and beg me to come back. She’d cry for forgiveness and wish she’d not come into my room last night, that she’d just gone to sleep and let me be.
There’d be a funeral, I imagined who’d attend, I daren’t flatter myself that it was many. I wondered if she’d attend, what song they’d play, how’d they dress me, which picture they’d choose to place beside my coffin, which flowers would surround the photo, whether they’d know I wanted to be cremated, if they’d put girly make up on me, what sort of food would be served and whether people would be happy and celebrate the life I’d once had or mourn the life I’d lost; I hoped for the former. I’d then wonder how the school would deal with it, would they explain I’d been beaten to death by my own mother? Everyone knew me as the weird but generally happy girl, I was picked on by the majority of the “popular” kids. Would they feel guilty for what they’d done? Would they feel regret for not knowing what I dealt with at home, wishing they’d just given me a break? Probably not… but I liked to imagine they would. I imagined it’d f**k them up for a while. I didn’t really want to hurt anyone or change their life, even those who’d hurt me. I just wanted to be acknowledged for being more than a punch bag.
But I never died. I woke up the next morning at 7am for school, as I did every day. Life resumed as if nothing had ever happened. It wasn’t the first time and it most certainly wasn’t the last.