Kiamara #285's Journal

[tomatotomato]

Will continue if I win, but for now I will simply post the story for entry in the next post.

[tomatotomato]

August 8, 2012

I've been meaning to write this down for a while now. It seems the time has come, they won't know. I'm alone for once, and my story is one to be shared.
These scars, people have asked about them for the longest time. And I never really tell anyone the truth...after all, it's not quite the first thing I tell strangers on the street. Strangers don't need to know the truth, they just need to smile. Just to smile...
It started in my childhood. A long time ago. But it's still one of the most distinct memories I possess.
My parents weren't particularly the "nicest" folks around. No one even knew I existed but them for the first few years in my life. They kept me well hidden. I'm just happy they don't see me anymore.
I was abused as a child. This is why I don't go around telling people about the scars. My childhood is not something to relive, or go through again. Not for me, not for you, not for anyone. Of course some of the scars were acquired over an amount of time, one night was the worst in particular. And it was the night I remember well...
"Come here this instant you incompetent child!" My mother called me to her, clearly angry. My eyes were brimming with tears, and my feet already sore. As I reached the domineering figure across the room, I could smell the strong scent alcohol, making me shrink back more, knowing the beating this time would be worse than it normally was. "You godforsaken pitiful child. I hate you." Her harsh words were accompanied with an even harsher slap to my face, making my stomach clench, and my face sting with impossible pain. I tried to stumble backwards, in an attempt to avoid more pain, but she met my step with an equal step coming in front of me, and slapping my face again, this time on the opposite cheek. Bood roared in my ears, and a reared in pain, screaming out, tears streaming down my face. I helplessly curled myself into a ball on the floor, trying to shield my face while exposing the rest of my body to the drunken horror that stared down upon me. She became ruthless, not ceasing for a moment as pain consumed me, and my cheeks were red and puffy from sobbing. My throat stung from screaming, but I attempted to ignore it, hoping the pain would end. And soon.
That night was the worst of my life, and nothing could ever be worse. After my mom had finished with me, my dad somehow had burst into the house, though not drunk, and beaten me too. Their anger had overcome them that night, and I was the outlet they found for their anger. Nothing had ever compared to then. The stormy night that delivered me reminders of it that will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Before that event had occurred. Before I ran away. I had a different name. A happier name, one that must not be spoken, because it causes me too much pain. A pain that comes from my mother. Because she gave me that name, and then she hurt me badly. She scarred me. So I refuse to acknowledge that I existed under that name. I refuse to acknowledge that it was my identity for the first 15 years of my life before I changed.
And however nice it was to get that off of my chest, I hear a squeaking door, that means my new family has come home. It also means that it is time for me to go. I must hide this journal where no one of my family will read it. Not unless I want them to.