Pieces of My Life
Believe me when I say that I have no idea what I'm on about. I was going to play with poetry but a story followed, so I decided to combine the both of them. I hope it finds you well.
![north-sea-4896241_1280.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/640x0/https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmS6dSzUBVV6pmSq3aYe6nRj75MixG4h5pfQNRZaohfSgC/north-sea-4896241_1280.jpg)
I have failed myself
I have failed my family
I have failed my loved ones
I have failed life
I have nothing left to live for
I was awakened by the banging on the door. It was actually the second time. The first, I had ignored. I opened one eye and shut it again. What now? My hand collided with a pillow as I stretched. The banging continued. I muttered some incomprehensible words under my breath and convered my face with my right arm.
“Open the damn door or I'll break it down.”
I frowned. Then it hit me. I was home. Knowing my sister, she would make do on the threath. I stood on wobbly legs and staggered to the door. I was going to open it a crack and assure her that I was fine, but the tears in her eyes gave me a pause. She pushed the door open.
“What are you doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“I've been knocking for so long. I thought something happened. I thought you hurt yourself... again,” her voice broke.
”No.”
“Are you really okay?”
“Yes.”
“You're not. You're still talking in monosyllable. Promise me. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”
I nodded. Once. Twice. I held her while she sobbed. She needed to, I knew. My own tears dried up a long time ago.
The first thing I see
Is a face peering down at me.
One face, two faces, maybe three.
They first look before they smile,
Before they tickle me.
I think they like my laughter.
I’m not sure but their faces change
Whenever I refuse to laugh,
Before they scoop me up,
Patting my freshly powdered behind.
It doesn’t matter that I just emptied my bladder.
My life began the day I fell from a tree. For most people, theirs begin the moment they were born. I had lain on the ground where I dropped, neither unconscious nor alert. I could hear screams and I could see people gathering around me. I saw myself being lifted up, saw my glasses fell and shattered, but I was oblivious. The only thing I recognised was a numb feeling on my right shoulder. I wanted to touch it.
“Stop picking the cast.”
I looked up and my mother stood there. She had this glint in her eyes. I recognised it. I knew exactly when she was faking anger. I pouted. She chuckled.
There were times the light in her eyes seemed so dim. On those days, she would pull my cheeks and pat my head. She would make me laugh while trying to mask her pain. Her eyes betrayed her, always. All I had to do was touch her face and the tears would slip. She never hid it from me.
The second thing I see
Is my uneven limbs,
Struggling to stand and take a step.
The faces are around me,
Clapping and cheering.
I giggle before I plowed back down
On the hard floor,
My legs tingling,
My arms sweaty.
They hoot and call me a champ.
I ignore them and frown at my bruised toe.
I was staring at my paintings. The colours kept beckoning. I could see them vividly but I couldn't reach them. My cast was gone. The doctor said it would take some time. The happy faces and endless chatter when it was removed wouldn't stop replaying in my mind. I was relieved it was finally over. Four months was a long time. I wanted to play with my colours.
I was starting at my right hand. The fingers kept failing to hold the pencil. Another two months had passed. I could fairly write with it now, but what I really wanted was to draw, to paint. I had stopped looking at my previous ones. I once hid the brushes and canvases under the bed but my sister found them. I already stopped crying. It made everyone sad.
I couldn't seem to forget the taunts of my classmates. I never minded that they called me four eyes. I would just paint and forget all about them. Now, I couldn't. They started calling my handwriting bad as well.
The third thing I see
Is blood on my dress.
I knew it would come,
Mother told me about it.
She also told me what will happen
If a boy touches me.
I want to play like I used to.
To run around naked and under the rain.
But my chest is getting big
And boys are staring at me.
I have to cover myself more.
That night, I was restless. I became the only left-handed girl in the neighborhood four years ago. Everyone moved on eventually but the proceeding events were still fresh in my memory. My paintings had become history. My mother had to change school for me. I became very quiet. The doctor said I would be okay. Those doctors, they knew nothing.
You see, I was this child who lived in her head. I would overthink everything. The only moment of escape was when I drew. Even that was taken from me. I wouldn't tell you about it but I had nothing left. I hid it well.
I was telling you about a night. My unsettled stomach dragged me out of bed. I headed to the kitchen to find some water. That was when I felt something crawling down my legs. I thought it was an ant at first. One look and I sighed. It was finally here. I changed my already stained gown and got lemon water instead. When my mother saw the dress in the morning, I shrugged.
The fourth thing I see
Is a child on my arms.
Happy faces making merry,
Old men cracking unfunny jokes.
Like a déjà vu it comes back,
The cheers when I took my first step,
The screams when I said my first word.
I look down at the little one
With a face so serene
And wonder if I’ll find peace.
I already glimpsed what it’s like.
I first saw him at my sister's graduation. He was a brother to one of the graduands. I couldn't look away, neither could he. There was no formalities. We both knew. I liked to think we did, later when things began to change. It gave me a sense of peace. I talked and he listened. He talked, I paid no attention, but he still did. It was easy. Too easy.
The wedding happened shortly. My mother was worried. She had never been able to figure me out . She believed it was too soon and she wanted me to be happy. My sister hugged me more. I could see the uncertainty written all over her face. They were resigned, both of them. I had always known what I wanted after all.
The baby came immediately. I reminded myself that I chose this life. I never did what I didn't want. I also reminded myself that I loved him. I wouldn't be here if I didn't.
The fifth thing I see
Is blood on my hands.
Not from my sign of womanhood,
Nor from my broken Innocence.
I have gone against everything I was thought.
A woman’s body belongs to her husband, they say.
It doesn’t matter if there’re bruises and pain,
Or if I’m being taken against my will.
I made my body mine
And I ended a life.
There’s nothing left for me.
Things changed more. The alcohol, the late nights. I wasn't surprised when the beatings followed. For the first time in years, I missed my paintings. I cursed the day I fell. I would watch makeup tutorials to learn how to hide my black eye. Sometimes I laughed at myself. I had become one of those women. I had become one of the things I despised the most, yet I couldn't leave.
I never made it about myself. I had a little one, so how could I? A child needs both parents. I totally forgot that the home needed to be functional for that to happen. This child was the only happy thing in my life, so I concentrated and gave motherhood my all. Still, it wasn't enough.
I knew it was over the day he raised his hand on my child. I started seeing the child as just mine shortly before it everything crippled. I couldn't remember how it all happened exactly. I held the knife tightly. I stood over his unmoving body, soaked in his blood. When his body was taken away and I was made to sign some papers by the police, I felt nothing. I only held my child tightly.
I have failed life
I have failed mother nature
I have failed love
I have failed the creator
I have nowhere to go
“You need to forgive yourself. What happened wasn't your fault.”
“I will.”
The air was different as I breathed. I had wanted to end it, but the thought of leaving my child behind wouldn't let me. I needed to be here, even if it wasn't for myself. Healing would happen in due time. I had something to live for.
![](https://steemitimages.com/640x0/https://fontmeme.com/permalink/180923/8161d4637d4fe4c81ea0aa136f466fc8.png)
I saw myself a couple of times in this piece. It reminded me of spaces I never thought I would get myself out of. Reminded me of forgotten wounds and healing scars.
Getting there for anyone who has been through what this character has been through comes without saying that it is the most difficult thing. Why we (read I) find it easier to forgive others and not ourselves is still a mystery to me.
Oh and I enjoyed the drops of poetry in a place of such pain. I don't know how or why it's easier to consume pain in it's poetic form ♡
I'm glad you're where you are now. We never forget but it gets better with time. You'll learn to forgive. I struggled with a lot of guilt when my Mama passed but I'm learning to let go. I have no idea when it will all disappear but it will.
Sending you endless love and hugs.
Posted using Partiko Android
I'm really impressed by the strength of the narration in this story. It felt like I could here someone, sitting across from me telling me this story, bearing their heart. I sincerely hope this isn't autobiographical chiny?
I also like the poetic interjections. They add to the story in a poignant and unique way. I actually wrote a story similar in uni 15 years ago with passages of fiction interjected with poetry. I've looked for it to put on steem but can't find it anywhere :(
The themes that you cover in this short story are both challenging to express and important to address... and you do that very well!
Domestic violence is a terrible thing, that unfortunately just seems to be accepted by many people and institutions. I know that many sects of the church pretty much ignore it (correct me if I'm wrong, but I've heard this is something that happens a lot in Africa especially) and the police see it as a problem crime - something that they don't like getting involved with but will when it's serious. I feel like these societal attitudes need to change deep down at a social and psychological level. As someone who has rarely been in a fight, and only to defend myself, I abhor violence.
The idea of hitting a woman literally makes me sick. I've only ever encountered it second hand but there is a story behind that encounter.
I once saw someone beating their girlfriend in Liverpool city center on a night out and all my friends were saying don't get involved but I couldn't stop myself, I just saw red. That guy was too drunk to do much as I basically tackled him, put his arm up his back and kneeled on his arm pinning him face down until the woman ran away. The strangest thing is that for the first 3 minutes she was defending him and telling me to get off him. I just kept saying, "please love, just leave so he can't keep beating you" and eventually she did.
It is through highlighting these types of things that attitudes will change... slowly, but I truly believe they will change! Your story does a great job of highlighting the psychological effects of these types of things, and also, you place us right inside the main character's head.
Great story and poetry.
No worries. It isn't autobiographical. Lol
It's actually the first time I tried something like this. I've written stories of similar plots with poetry interludes but never like this. I'm glad it turned out this good.
I wish I could say this is wrong. The church and the society play a major role. A woman has to endure and all that crap. But the good news is that it's becoming less. People are waking up. It's slow but it's still progress, and men are beginning to understand too.
I'll never understand this power the abuser have over his victim. They call it Stockholm Syndrome, I think. You feel like shaking them so hard to wake them up. The worst part is that they eventually kill their abuser when they can't take anymore. The stigma of being a divorcee? So they choose widowhood over that. Maybe the children, I'll never know.
Thank you for stopping by. It's always a pleasure.
Poignant and powerful passage from the innocence of childhood, to battered wife driven to a desperate act. That knock on the door, that circuit we travel along with this tormented young woman, is a work of art. Haunting story with a note of hope - well done!
Thank you. I'm glad you like it.
Hi @chinyerevivian
I just wanted to stop by to let you know that I chose your excellent story for submission to OCD's new community curation initiative, which you can read more about here.
Your short story has been featured in their community compilation of the best authors from a variety of the new hive communities.
The Ink Well is one of around 6 communities chosen to submit posts daily for both the ocd vote and inclusion in their publication. This is the edition you were recently featured in, which includes my review of why your post so impressed me:
OCD Daily: Community Issue #515
I'm really happy about this development for our community and hope you will continue to post your excellent work at The Ink Well as we're really impressed, and value great creative writing here.
All the best, and thank you for being an active contributor at The Ink Well 🙂
Thank you. When I saw the votes, I knew it had to be you. I'm happy being here. This has boosted my confidence greatly. Much appreciated.
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