Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: REMEMBER (10/19/17)
- TITLE: Waiting For Sorry
By Phillip Cimei
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It has been forty years since we had face-to-face contact. I have been running from him ever since. I couldn’t forget. He changed my life. He created a puppet—a slave to the memories of his abuse. Then the words came I had been dreading these past forty years, “I was in town, and I’m on my way to see ya.” Deep furrows of fear and anger formed in my brow—furrows plowed by the unforgettable past. All I could say was, “Oh, I…I…gotta go, Bruce.” I set the phone down, walked hurriedly to the bathroom, and vomited.
What was I to do? Leave? Lock the door? I knew I might someday have to face up to this tormentor. Over and over, night sweats and nightmares screamed pack your bags and escape. Escape? How do you escape memories?
I had to leave all those years. If I stayed too long I might be a success. People might learn to like me. I might make and keep a friend. I might even come to like myself. I must pack my bags and start over. Maybe it will be better. Different. It wasn’t. I could only remember. Remember each degrading event.
Sweat dripping from my brow converged with the tears running down my cheek as the events replayed in my mind. A black pistol aimed dead center between my eyes. He assured me that the safety was on. It wasn’t. Lucky for me it was a pellet/bb/dart pistol that only looked like a 45 caliber Ruger. Unlucky for me, there was a dart loaded in the chamber.
I screamed out only to be hushed with a muffled, “Shut up you little bawl-baby.” Through gritted teeth, his threats of reprisal overshadowed the feathery dart that protruded millimeters away from my eye. I put my tail between my legs and whimpered like a cowering dog. This was but one drop of tantalizing water in his thirst for dominance. Much worse followed.
My heart raced as I was thrust back into reality. What do I do today, run? My heart pleaded for an answer. But all that came back to me was FORGIVE. What?
How Could I forgive when I couldn’t forget? Bruce and his friend had lured me into his friend’s house? How silly of me to think that they wanted to befriend me. The door of escape from their demoralizing game was locked, but a new door would open to a lifetime of shame, insecurity, and visions of continual failure. Forget? How?
Imprints of twisted grins seared my heart as they grabbed me, threw me to the ground, and stripped me naked. My futile cries for help only excited their need for dominance. How could Bruce be a partner in this fiasco of degradation? Bruce, my brother.
I became comatose to feelings as his friend tied me to the bed then urinated on me. His hellish grin imprinted forever as he photographed my degradation. Would my brother ever say he was sorry? What next?
The next week I was stuffed like a bag of garbage into an upturned dog house by my brother and ten of his friends, and then urinated on, one after the other. Year after year humiliated, beat down physically and mentally. What do I do God?
My mind and heart struggled with His answers, walk the extra mile, turn the other cheek, blessed are the persecuted, and forgive or don’t expect forgiveness. FORGET! Was God trying to tell me that forgiveness stands on one side of the door and remembrance on the other—never on the same side? Was He telling me that if I opened the door to one I will shut and lock the door to the other? To be like his Son must I forget? But I wanted “Sorry”. I have waited so long. Is that why Bruce is coming?
Knock, knock. I starred at the door, Knock, knock. Was this a replay of the story, The Lady and the Tiger? Which door would I choose? The one that forgives and forgets—which opens to happiness—or the one that remembers—which brings torment and pain? Or, do I just sit and wait for, Sorry. Knock, knock.
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