scars to your beautiful

“You wanna know how I got these scars?”

You thought I didn’t lie. I didn’t. I don’t. That was a white lie. I didn’t say he didn’t cut them. I said I didn’t. I wasn’t lying. I didn’t. You thought I didn’t lie. Look at you, so disappointed in me. You with all your moral disgust. That sneer on your face, those lips curled up in repulsion. Because I’d lied. Moral principles? What were you, trying to do what he used to do when he didn’t like something? He used to remain silent, in case you forgot.

I don’t lie. I didn’t lie. But what do you expect from the way I learned not to. How long did you think it would last? Do you think it just came about? Born out of love? Ha, what a great joke. You know, for someone that has such ‘a great reputation’ in the market, you remind me of that maulvi who preached to the world and forgot to pay attention at home. The one whose child died of an overdose? Either that, or you’re stupid and blind when it comes to what happens in your own damn house.

I don’t lie. I didn’t lie. But let me tell you how I got these scars. You think it just came naturally. Oh, one day he woke up and decided not to lie. You forget, this is the same house where arms are ripped out of sockets, hair is pulled from the head. Shoes are flung at the smallest slight.

I’d come home from school. She was showering me. I was young. Permit me, if you will, a tangent. Fuck you, it’s my story, I don’t need to ask for your permission. It’s funny how memories of childhood are most vivid when it’s about her. And most of them invariably involve her anger and wrath. Like the one, that I think is hilarious with me running around that small table we used to have in our room, and her chasing me. I think it’s hilarious now, but it was a nightmare in the moment. I think it’s hilarious now, but given the fact that I was running out of fear of my life, and fear of pain, it might not be so funny after all. I was young. She used to shower me. Wow, what a great person. Paying so much attention to her young, that mother hen. I’m sure that’s your justification. And that’s what will stick with you. Because you don’t fucking care. No wonder I thought I was adopted for so long. No wonder I’ve always tried to run away. No wonder, like all children of abuse, I always end up getting pulled back here. It was my fault. I did something wrong. It wasn’t. I didn’t. She was showering me. She asked about school. The tub was smooth under my feet. Cold and wet. I was afraid of her beating me, so I didn’t tell her the full truth. I was a kid. Of course she caught the lie. And then it began. Red flashes in front of my eyes. I wasn’t dazed in that I didn’t know what had happened. Even by that point, I knew she had begun to beat me. I covered my head. The slaps were loud, on my back, on my head. I could feel them turning red. A respite. Not a great feeling. Then came the chappal. I slipped. And tripped in the tub. I couldn’t cover my face anymore. Smack. Smack. Smack. You were at work.