Whisper Me This

by Kerry Anne King

The now-responsible party for a disaster so high on the clusterfuck scale there is no number sufficient to mark it.

Whisper me this, my darling, my love The song of the moonlight, of stars up above Whisper me truth, love, and whisper me lies Warm days of winter, cold summer skies Whisper me anger, whisper me rain Whisper me flowers, then whisper me pain When I come to die, love, then whisper me this The shape of a memory, the truth of a kiss. Whisper me, whisper me, whisper me this A lifetime of memories, and one final kiss.

And on the right side of my rib cage, four purplish oval marks, lurid against the winter pallor of my skin. I stare at them, my brain frozen and not processing, until I turn and see the fifth mark on my back. Fingerprints. All my rationalizations scatter like cockroaches do when the light comes on. I didn’t just feel commandeered, claimed, objectified; it happened. The evidence of Greg’s possessive behavior is imprinted on my flesh. For a long time I stand there, breathing in a new reality. Realizations move through my head, clearing out debris. Memories reframe themselves. Beliefs transform. In the space of a few moments, I’m a brand-new Maisey. I even look different to myself in the mirror. Stronger. Braver. More like my mother. The tub is now full of water, but before I get in I do one last thing. Using my phone, I photograph the marks on my body from multiple angles, a reminder to myself in case I begin to forget. I soak in the tub until the water cools to tepid, letting all my new pieces come together. When I get out, I picture emotional debris swirling down the drain.

There’s a wildcat in my belly, hissing and spitting. My hands have claws. I want to launch myself at this man who has hit my daughter, to tear his smug face with my fingernails, to scream and shriek and watch him bleed.

Grief hits me for my own beautiful self-confidence, shattered so many years ago that I can’t imagine ever putting the pieces all back together. Maybe it’s too late for me, but Elle still has a chance to stay free of this broken thinking.