On the seventh second, of the seventh minute, of the seventh hour, of the seventh day, of the seventh week, of the seventh year, of my captivity, the stale taste of abuse, and denial, fell on my lips. Unable to stomach the extent of my circumstances, I vomited my horrid memories onto the cheap, flowery, linoleum covered floor of my 'friend'.
Chlorine bleach, mixed with the contents of my young belly, was enough to make me wretch. To this day, the smell of bleach makes me sick. Forced to clean up my 'mess', I cried uncontrollably, until I was told, very forcefully, to PLEASE BE QUIET. I remember Nat King Cole on the radio. He calmed me down. He still does.
How many times, how many ways, how many 'friends', I have no idea. Just faint recollections smells, tastes, sounds. Feelings of helplessness and guilt. Memories of my younger days are gone. All I have are photos of a little boy, looking lonely, lost, shy, afraid. Perhaps it's better that way.
Some memories deserve to die.
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