I am petrified.
Locked in a closet.
A silent statue.
Immobile.
When I was little, I hated silence. I cannot recall why. But my mom told me she would sing me a lullaby until I fell asleep, put me in my crib and skitter out of the room without a sound. She would tiptoe to her room, slide under the blanket. On cue, I would cry.
I think, perhaps, silence was synonym of absence.
I was terrified she would forget about me.
I wish he would forget about me.
Walk away and never come back.
But I am trapped in a closet.
The key is in his hand.
I was hiding, but I was not the one who locked the door.
I was hiding while he was playing hide and seek.
The house it too small to hide for long.
He always finds me.
I am paralysed.
Locked in a closet.
A silent statue.
Shaking.
When I was little, I would not sleep unless my dad checked under the bed for any monsters. He would chase the nightmares away with a kiss and welcome my dreams with a smile. My dad was my dream keeper, and fulfilled his duties with rightfulness. When he was home.
My dad also was a synonym of absence.
I was frightened he would forget about me.
He would never forget about me.
He has a special power.
His eyes reminds me he does not forget.
About.
Me.
His voice reminds me he does not forget.
About.
Me.
His fists reminds me he does not forget.
About.
Me.
His smile reminds me he does not forget.
About.
Me.
His confident steps when he approaches reminds me he does not forget.
That I never move.
Away.
He can paralyse me with a simple look.
And then.
He.
Tosses me to the ground like a broken twig.
He is silence.
And I hate him.
He used to hide in the silence of my room, under my crib.
He used to laugh in the pauses of my breath.
His fingers would creep up the crib and peek through.
Grab and pinch and push and pull at my tender skin, my tender heart.
He is the monster my dad used to warn me about.
*He is silence and I want to scream
But
When I try to take a breath he suffocates me