This one is pretty dark...

Here’s a very short story I wrote a few years ago that in no way resembles my first YA Fantasy book, Sebasten of Atlantis and The Forgotten Goddess (https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DZSC1B4).

Still, I wanted to share it with you. So here it is.

ABUSE

It happened! Oh God, why did it happen? Cynthia couldn’t tell. And now, as the purple rose on her son’s face, so did her guilt in her mother’s heart. How could she have done it? Hadn’t she always told herself that she’d never hit her child? That she’d never be like her father? That she was made of different stuff?

And now look at her. Just look at her. Like father like daughter, they say. And maybe they were right.

But no, she wasn’t like him, may he rest in peace—–although, come to think of it, he probably didn’t deserve peace. Not after what he’d done to her.

Look who’s talking, said a voice in her head. This is no time to act high and mighty, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou. Look what you’ve done to your son. The flesh of your flesh. The blood of your blood. You’re no better than the old man. No better at all.

It’s not the same! she thought, almost pleaded. Besides, I didn’t hit him hard. I know I didn’t. It was… just a little slap.”

But the purple on Nathan’s face sang a different tune. Cynthia could barely look at it now as she found herself drowning in memories and guilt.

Purple, she thought. Oh, how she hated the color! It was the color of pain. It was the color of shame. It was the color of abuse.

Instinctively she put her hand to her neck—–there had lain a nasty piece of jewelry that had left its mark much beyond the purple…

When she was but a little girl, Cynthia’s father had done something to her that no grownup should ever do to a child. As he was doing it, he had tried to muffle her cries by pressing both of his giant hands around her neck. Even now Cynthia couldn’t tell whether she’d passed out because of the pressure or because of the pain. When she’d come to, the first thing she had done was go to the bathroom to shower over and over again. How filthy and sullied she had felt! How polluted!

But neither soap nor water had done much to make her feel any less tainted. For the filth was in her now, and it would stay there forever. Finally she’d found the strength to step out of the shower and look at herself in the mirror. There, in her hateful reflection, she had seen it—–the “little souvenir” her father had given her to adorn her frail shoulders and neck: a purple choker of interlocked bruises.

Enough! Cynthia shouted in the silence of her mind. It’s in the past now. It’s all in the past. So enough already!

Falling to her knees, she took her six-year-old in her arms and kissed him repeatedly. Nathan didn’t kiss her back, but he didn’t back away either. Thank God for that.

She whispered in his ear, “I’m so sorry, honey, please forgive me. It will never happen again, I promise. I love you. Mama loves you. More than anything in the world.”

As the words passed her lips, her father’s own apology came knocking at a door she had thought shut and locked forever. After each abuse, he would tell her the very same things she was now telling her son—–that he was sorry, that it would never happen again, that he loved her so much. Then she would tell him that it was all right, that she loved him anyway. Only in thought would she add: You monster! You vile, evil monster! I hate you!

Cynthia hugged Nathan tighter and said, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

“It’s all right, Mommy,” Nathan said. “I love you anyway.”