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|A young woman explains why she murders her mother's husband.||
Letter From Ayla-Michelle
Some things are hard to remember, if they are remembered at all. The birth, young life experiences, and most any even that traumatizes a person; selective memory keeps those things out of or heads. With me, selective memory wasn’t something I was granted.
My birth was a horrible event. Sitting inside the warm enclosure of my mother’s womb, I was content. She seemed like a nice woman. Often, she read me stories, or played songs. This woman had a nice, soothing voice that I loved to listen to, even when she was crying.
The man she lived with, possibly my father, made her cry often. As I hadn’t been taught a language yet, I couldn’t understand what he was saying to her, but I could tell it made her sad. Her voice sounded different, after he was done with her, and so was her posture. I hated her feeling like that. It disgusted me.
The birthing process was painful, for both my mother and myself. I will leave out the gory details, for you, but it was very far from anything beautiful. It was bloody, messy and had an unpleasant smell.
I vividly remember the smell, now being able to use my lungs. Now I know it was the smell of sterilization and the woman, but then, it scared me almost as much as the doctors.
I was in my mother’s womb a little over the normal nine months and was born with my eyes open. The first image that came clearly to my eyes was a man, in a light blue outfit: suit, gloves, and a mask. Again, I didn’t know what it was at the time. Then he struck me, on my behind. How could I not cry, being assaulted by some strange thing?
From witnessing my mother crying, I kind of knew I was crying. The sound I made was greatly different from her sound, but it was the same. It was a beautiful thing, to be able to feel things, to feel emotions. I cried the rest of the day, just because everything was so beautiful. The colors, the smells, the sounds amazed me. I cried just because I could.
Everything was beautiful, until we got to my mother’s house. The house itself was colorful and warm. My room had pink and purple wallpaper, white furniture, and a soft teddy bear all waiting for me. I loved it from the moment I held it in my arms.
Then that man showed up. I recognized his voice right away. It was disgusting, his voice, raspy and broken. He smelled bad, as well. I found out later, that he stunk from the smoke of a drug called marijuana. That smoky stench followed him everywhere. At least he stayed out of my room, but he would pause at the door. He often just stared at me while I was supposed to be napping.
Thankfully, he didn’t touch me much, but when he did, that stench stuck to me. I would cry until I was given a bath and fresh clothes. I also learned that whenever I cried, he left. He hated it when I just wailed on. Oh the power of a child.
He never stayed away for long, he’d always come back in a few days. When he would come back, mother would set me in front of the television and she would go into another room with him. He’d make her cry still, so then I cried.
I never understood why mother wanted him there. I still don’t. She was unhappy when he was there, and she was unhappy when he wasn’t. But she smiled more when he wasn’t there.
My mother was so incredibly beautiful, especially when she smiled. I loved to watch her. She’d laugh at me when I would stare at her instead of the television. She’d call me to her, hug me and tell me she loved me so very much. I was a year old, maybe a couple months before that, when I started to understand what she, and others, were saying to me.
People were talking to me like I was some kind of idiot. “Goo-goo-gaa-gaa” and other phrases were often said to me while they poked their noses and fingers in my face. I never actually saw another baby as I grew up, maybe we actually did sound like that. Adults often said my name to me, Ayla-Michelle. I guess it wasn’t a common name, or they just wanted me to look at them. They’d always get so excited when I did. They’d call their friends to show me looking at them. I’d laugh at their stupidity. Come on, what is so great about a simple look from a mere child?
(To be Continued…)