I remember...

A Story by Snivy12345

This is a memoir I also wrote in my creative writing class. Please, all feedback is encouraged.

He was always a hygienic person. Even in the aftermath of what happened, the only things that remained in that apartment were an underlying feeling of dread, and his multi-purpose cleaner. To this day, the memory still haunts me, cascading down my face in a river of my own emotion.

I remember my shaky fingers dragging across the fabric of his ancient, faded couch. My news spread around Facebook like an unstoppable wildfire, evoking an unsurprising reaction out of my family’s other half that were avidly religious. Whispers were exchanged in the other room, barely audible except for the occasional sigh. A moment later, a figure walked out of the room, a demeaning look on her anorexic-like face. My stepmother. She grabbed the car keys and my little sister as fast as her little legs could amble, leaving without such as a “bye” or a “be right back”. The aura of confusion immediately replaced itself with one of fear as he, the towering colossus of man that he was, stomped out of his room and over to my tiny form.

I remember being only twelve at the time, so my emotional and mental state were still quite fragile like a dehydrated leaf during the fall. It was breakable like the thin drywall that laid sporadically across my stagnant body. It was easily manipulated by the words that were not said to me, but yelled at me from his own megalomaniacal mind. The diction was rather harsh; “F****t”, and “Disgrace” repeated throughout the short time, fogging my apparent pain with clouds of shame and guilt. I looked into his eyes, the emotion unreadable; I was accepting my fate, laying my head back onto the carpet.

“What’s all that ruckus?!”

I remember my savior being a loud knock at the door, with shouting following each bang. He reacted suddenly, looking down at the mess that he’d caused, the emotion on his face as close to guilt as he could ever come. I allowed a slight smile to creep itself onto my face. I was going to be okay. I was saved.

I remember being held tightly in my mom’s arms as we walked up to the man years later, a false look of apathy on his face - easily seen through. He hid a sense of pride, malice, and wrath behind that face. When I noticed this, I turned around, refusing to take a step further. I hate this man. I will not forgive him. I remember thinking, “Some things aren’t worth remembering.”