I Remember You…
I Remember You
“I know you”, I said to the man standing in line at Woolco.
“You watched me when your daughter Valerie would go out.”
He stared blankly. “I am the girl that was the four-year-old that you used to ‘play’ with.”
Horror slowly crossed his face as he remembered. “I.. I.. Yes, I remember you… ”.
I stared in open rage remembering how he sweet-talked, bribed, cajoled and begged me to “play” with him. The memories had suddenly flown back about three months ago when I “became a woman”.
I felt courage rise up in me, forming an evil alliance with rage and I started to shake with the memories of how helpless I’d felt, how wrong I knew it was even at that tender age, how wrong I knew that it was now, seven years later. I wanted to punch him in the face. I wanted to kick and scream and torture him. I wanted to hurt him just like he had hurt my childhood, robbed me of my innocence, kinked my personality and twisted my idea of validation with every boy that I encountered in life.
I had been strictly brought up to not talk back to adults. I would get an ugly beating if I did anything like my imagination was urging me to. I had told my mom about this a few months before, but, not knowing what to say, she simply dismissed it. I was left feeling hopeless. We had just started sex education in grade five and it all came back like an avalanche of destruction that ripped away the velvety veil of memory loss that I’d had for the last several years.
It had been affecting me, ever since. I couldn’t talk to my friends the same way. I could not think of boys at all. I could not stand the thought of anyone touching me, kissing me, going out with me; just when I was really getting into boys. I was finding that life was a lot easier to handle if I just kept things inside. I started a diary. This helped, but the crushing memories remained and I just did not know what to do with them.
Until now. I looked at him again. My spine tingled with fury. The words rose up in me and I didn’t know where they came from, even as they were coming out of my mouth.
“I hope that when you meet God, that you feel all of the awful things that you made me feel. I hope that you cry. I hope that you beg Him to stop, just as I begged you. I hope you die.”
I saw a tear form in his eye, but there was no mercy in my soul for him. “I hate you”, I said, and walked away, leaving him with the ghost of his memories, hoping that they would haunt him forever.