Childhood Scars..

The water ran over my hands, blurring the small faint scars dotted over them. I looked at my wedding ring that sat on my left hand. The beauty of the diamond and love that it represented was tainted by the scars. The scars that were made over 25 years ago but were destined to remind of my childhood everyday.
My head hurt. I turned off the faucet and dried mu hands returning to the kitchen countertop to slice tomatoes. I picked up the knife and started to slowly and carefully cut the tomatoes. The light, coming through the window, caught the blade of the knife deflecting the light into my eyes momentarily blinding me. I dropped the knife. The sound of it clattering to the floor was too much for me. A sharp pain shot through my chest, I fell to the ground tears streaming down my face, forced to relive a memory of my childhood that I never wanted to return to.

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I came home from school and opened the door as gently as possible and creeped inside. I went upstairs making sure to stay on the carpet. Mother hated if I left footprints on the wood. I went into my room making sure I left the door open. Mother hated it if she though I was hiding something from her. I put my satchel under my desk making sure it was tucked away out of my sight. Mother hated it if my room looked unkempt. I went downstairs and into the kitchen. Mother was sitting down at the table reading one of her magazines. She was still in her pyjamas and dressing gown even though it was four in the afternoon. I didn't greet her. Children were to be seen and not heard.
"Why do you still have your shoes on?"
Her voice was cold, unloving. It made a chill run down my back. I had forgotten to take my shoes off when I came in. Mother hates it if I keep my shoes on, she does not want me dirtying her house.
"What have I told you, you ungrateful little bitch?"
I used my hands as a lever to push myself off the countertop and face my mother. She grabbed my arm and forced me into one of the kitchen chairs. The wood felt cold and hard against my skin. Mother pulled a knife from the kitchen drawer. It was a knife I knew well. It had a wooden handle with a smooth silver blade protruding from it. I cowered away from her like a young child although I was fifteen years of age. She grabbed my hand and held it firmly on the table and began to slice my hand with the knife and told me how I gave her no choice but to do this, I had to learn the rules.
The rules? I was sick of the rules. I had heard about the rules my whole life. I vaguely remember the first time I was 'punished'. I was five, almost six, and had taken a biscuit from the tin without Mother's knowledge and Mother had caught me.
I pulled my hand out from under the knife with as much force as I could muster. The knife dragged across my hand and I hissed in pain. Mother looked astonished, shocked and angry. A mixture of emotions displayed across her face. I had never defied her in ten years. I couldn’t look at her. I ran out of the back door and kept running all the way down the alley. I just kept running and running. I didn't know where I was going; I just knew I could never return to Mother.

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I gasped for breath and used my sleeve to wipe my tears. Slowly gathering myself up off the floor, I made sure I looked ok. Roger would be home soon and I had to finish dinner. I started to prepare a marinade for the chicken thinking I'd leave the tomatoes.
After five years of marriage and eight years of being together in total, I still let Roger believe that my severe sudden chest pains and headaches were some medical condition that no doctors could diagnose. I've never told anyone about Mother. Daddy had known. Another sharp pain shot through my chest. My knees buckled and once again I fell to the ground bringing the glass bowl of marinade with me. This was a very bad day for me. It wasn't normally this bad.

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I was nine years old and I heard a car pull into the driveway. It was Daddy, instead of running down to him, I stayed in my room. I couldn't understand why he left me here when he knew what Mother did to me.
Daddy walked in through my open door, and sat down on my bed. He took my hand in his and caressed my scars.
"I'm sorry, darling. She doesn't mean to. Mummy's ill."
I looked at him with what must've been confusion since this was how I always felt when daddy came round.
"Why can't I live with you, Daddy?"
He looked at me like I was a stray dog begging for food. I never got an answer, he just kissed me lightly on the forehead and left. That was the last day I saw Daddy.

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I gasped for breath, I never understood why I reacted like this physically to these memories. I had loved my Daddy and in some twisted way, I had love my mother too, like a child does. Yet to this day, it confused me how it’s possible for parents to be such different people.
When I had finally caught my breath, I tried to get up and felt a sharp pain in my left hand. I looked down to find myself surrounded by shattered glass with three pieces stuck in my hand. I somehow managed to get up, and with my better hand I pulled out the pieces of glass over the sink. The slits in my hand started to bleed and I held a damp dishcloth to my hand to ebb the bleeding. When I pulled it away, I found matching cuts on my palm to match my previous scars. I felt sick, I was never going to get over this. I wanted Roger. Everything was ok when Roger was with me. Like the first time I met him…

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I was at the doctors office in the waiting room. I had had a cold for a few weeks and it wasn’t going away. I had to see the doctor even though I hated being around people. I heard the door creak shut, but I didn’t bother to look up. After a few minutes, I felt someone was staring at me. I looked up and saw this good-looking guy in a shiart, jacket and jeans staring at me. I I quickly looked away but he seemed to take this as his cue to come over and chat. I was really uncomfortable and awkward, I wasn’t sure about this overally-confident guy. Thankfully, I was called to the doctor. After however, I found that he had waited for me and he insisted we go for a coffee. It was over that awfully sweet milky coffee that I fell in love..

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I found myself smiling. Memories of Roger never caused pain. I fiddled with my wedding ring that I had now worn for five years. I was forty one years old and in the twenty six years since I had left home I had not told a soul. I felt this sudden determination to not let my childhood destroy anymore of my life.

I would tell Roger.