Woman on Fire

The more I’m bombarded with memories of you the stronger is my belief in the death penalty. Each time I sip my coffee and it burns my lips I believe lightening should strike and burn you to the ground. And each time a tear hits my pillow I wish you to drown again and again in your own filth. Even so, I wonder what your death would serve now? Years ago it would have been productive but not now. Your painful untimely death wouldn’t serve a purpose now and that is a serious injustice to human kind, a serious and grave injustice. I think of the girls in your little club and the stories they surely have. But mostly I hear my sister weeping and that makes me want to search for you and strangle the life out of you for having the audacity to put your death hands on her.

It bothers me that no matter how much pain you feel it will not feel to you like justice. It’ll just be me being your bad and lost daughter. No matter how many chains are wrapped around you you’ll never fully grasp what it means to have your soul tied to a stake with fire at your feet. You won’t get it. You won’t understand this is because you had the nerve to harm your children. Each licking flame will be confirmation that I am the one in the wrong.

Monday my therapist asked me why I didn’t want to take swimming class in high school. He asked what I believed would happen if I was seen in the suit and people witnessed that you’d been there on my back and legs, arms and neck. I simply told him I didn’t have an answer for it. The answer is I bought into the lie that I was the problem. If people saw the scars they’d know and maybe they’d take me away but that would all be my fault. I truly thought I deserved to be harmed. I believed I needed to be dominated and stripped of all dignity for crimes I wasn’t quite sure I committed. Each scar was symbolic of how I failed you. To show them would be to publicly admit that I was a bad daughter. I couldn’t behave. It didn’t occur to me that you’d get in trouble.

So here we are years later and I still cover nearly every inch of skin… and I still don’t swim. Only now I question whether the problem was me or you. At least now I can see a tiny bit of light through thick, dark lies. It’s taken forever but at least I question if I fueled the flames at my feet.

Part of me hopes you show your face at my door this evening. I guess just cause I’d like to go off on you. I have this image of me turning the water hose on you. I’ve had images of me holding up my black cat to the window for your very superstitious self to see. Then another part of me sees me going into my bedroom with the door closed scared to death that my roommate will let you in. How on earth would I get your filth off my carpet, off my walls? How will I get your stench cleared from the air? There’s no industrial strength cleaner to get you out of here. So here’s the thing, I’ll not promise myself any particular action at this time. If you show up I’ll deal with it then cause right now the thought of you at my door is a bit overwhelming. The thing is, at this time I’m so easily angered that it wouldn’t be too much to say you’re taking your safety into your own hands by crossing my boundaries. You should have pulled this about 3 or 4 months ago when I wasn’t exploding with anger. I just don’t know that now is the time to show your face with the expectation of walking away healthy.

Once your phone calls started I figured you’d show up today at midnight just like last time. I feared I’d feel obligated to open the door. That I’d walk to the door like a programmed robot and open it up as if I had no options under the sun. Mom said to do this so I’ll do it. I could see myself walking across the floor in slow motion towards the door, on auto pilot, in trance state. I could see me throwing the dead bolt to let you into the little home I’ve made for myself. That’s the same nightmare state I was in as a child. But today I need to remember I’ve worked to change your programming, for years I’ve worked to undue what you’ve done. There’s no sense in throwing it away at the opening of a door or a few shots to the chest.

It still throws me that none of this makes any sense to you. It’s okay for you to call or show up unannounced. After all I belong to you, right? I have no say in if you show up. I can say “no” all day long but seeing as how you own me and how I’m just property to you you’ll do whatever you like with me when you like. I guess the thing is, it doesn’t matter how alive I am, to you I’ll always be the walking dead, the little girl you controlled with fear and pain. But here, today, I can challenge that. I don’t have to take them at face value. I’m not your little girl and I’m not property. I may walk amongst your flames but I’ll be damned if I fall to my knees in them.

My door remains closed to you.

Sincerely,

Woman On Fire-Wednesday, December 24, 2008-5:17PM EST