there were occasions when your forehead cracked against the white tiled wall; your cheeks swelled up from the impact against the underside of the porcelain wash basin; your palms bearing red angry lines and claw marks in tiny crimson crescents, and those faded scar marks decorating your once emaciated body?
Do you still remember your hair being teared out from the roots, your fingers forced backwards with such brutal force until you thought you won't be able to write anymore; your blistered back from the simmering liquid leaking from the white kettle, not to mention those blue-black marks on your chest and upper thighs?
Do you still remember those days you stood like a statue facing a wall of whiteness, your tiny feet with flaking soles fitted within an equally small square tile and you wondered how long to mealtimes, bedtime to rest your aching body? You continued to live through the whole cycle again: Wake up after being yelled at to get out of that bed. Eat. Stand. Being showered hastily because you were like a disease to be avoided at all cost. Get lost and go to bed. Repeat.
When people asked about your scars and bruises, you told them you fell down accidentally and that you were careless. They must not know the truth; you must not tell them. One word out- Bang! You are dead.
One thing that you would remember were the words that made you feel worthless and a waste of space, the screams, the death threats, the insults. Those were like knives plunged into your battled body, deep into your shattered heart, which hurt more than those pains inflicted in your weakened flesh.
You tumbled down into a deep never-ending darkness, wishing you could forget and never had to relive those memories again.
As if you could. You couldn't forget so easily, no matter how hard you'd tried. So you continue to feel all the pain, except now you are the one hurting yourself. It's your own fault. You have only yourself to blame.