I couldn't help but think that they should have seen it. All the signs I had given off in high school, all the signs of an abused child. I think they didn't want to, honestly. I can't help but hate them for it. I was the quiet emo boy of the class, the loner, always hiding his face in a book, his blonde hair hanging in his face. No one really payed any attention to me, Aaron. Rachelle was the only one to notice my predicament at the time, but even she wouldn't have noticed, if I hadn't been forced to confess to her, that one unfortunate afternoon, when she witnessed one of the beatings my father swiftly delivered to me, and how my mother did nothing as I protected her from him. It was all for my mother, after all.
Before I met Rachelle, I was just barely clinging to the edge of sanity. It was so hard to bear it all, I was so close to snapping. When I look back, now, on the whole situation, I can't help but be amazed with myself. It may seem arrogant to say, but I was stronger than I thought I was. Every day, every single day, I bore witness to my father's drunkenness, in more ways than one. My body bore the scars and marks of his irrational intoxicated rage. It still does, to this day. Scars crisscross across my back from lashings, and a couple of my fingers are crooked, having been snapped some way or another. But the scarring goes well past my physique. While the physical scars will fade, over time, the emotional ones will not. It pains me to admit this, to this very day. It's almost as if each word is a poisoned barb, designed to cause me the most pain as possible, when I confess to this. My next words are not to be taken lightly.
Until a certain point in my life, the brutality had never gone beyond beatings, until one night, when I was 16. That night, in another one of my father's drunken spiels, my father raped me. Even now, I almost feel it happening again as the memories reemerge.
It was the worst pain possible, worse than even the floggings. Blood and come dripped from me when he was finished, as I lay, broken on the floor, my sobs feeble and weak. Bruises had blossomed across my skin where his hands clutched me, blood dribbling from where his nails bit into my skin. My hands shook as I gasped for air, each breath catching in my throat.
Before I met Rachelle, I was just barely clinging to the edge of sanity. It was so hard to bear it all, I was so close to snapping. When I look back, now, on the whole situation, I can't help but be amazed with myself. It may seem arrogant to say, but I was stronger than I thought I was. Every day, every single day, I bore witness to my father's drunkenness, in more ways than one. My body bore the scars and marks of his irrational intoxicated rage. It still does, to this day. Scars crisscross across my back from lashings, and a couple of my fingers are crooked, having been snapped some way or another. But the scarring goes well past my physique. While the physical scars will fade, over time, the emotional ones will not. It pains me to admit this, to this very day. It's almost as if each word is a poisoned barb, designed to cause me the most pain as possible, when I confess to this. My next words are not to be taken lightly.
Until a certain point in my life, the brutality had never gone beyond beatings, until one night, when I was 16. That night, in another one of my father's drunken spiels, my father raped me. Even now, I almost feel it happening again as the memories reemerge.
It was the worst pain possible, worse than even the floggings. Blood and come dripped from me when he was finished, as I lay, broken on the floor, my sobs feeble and weak. Bruises had blossomed across my skin where his hands clutched me, blood dribbling from where his nails bit into my skin. My hands shook as I gasped for air, each breath catching in my throat.
