When I was younger, I still remembered who I was before I was taken.
I’m not exactly sure when the memories started to fade. I don’t remember the day I realized I no longer knew what my mother looked like anymore, or where I used to live, or what my last name was, what my room looked like, who my family was… I just remember waking up one morning, sobbing in the arms of the man who took me, because it was all gone. And it had been gone for a long time.
It’s strange how memories work. Iknowthat I used to remember. IknowI had a past beyond that dumpster on third street. But whenever I try to bring it into focus…. It all slips away.
“I found you there,” he says to me, over and over whenever I ask about going home. “Abandoned, unwanted. I saved you, because you’re my beautiful baby, and I love you.”
And he says,“No one else wanted you, they threw you away. I rescued you! I’m the one that wants you, no one else.”
“I wasn’t lost!” I try to tell him. “I was just playing there. I was going to go back home for dinner!”
He never liked it when I said that.
After a while, if he quizzed me about how we met or what I remembered, I would tell him what he wanted to hear.
That I’d been left there. Abandoned.
That he saved me. That he loved me. That I was his beautiful, perfect baby.
Sometimes I believed him, sometimes I didn’t. By the end of it, when I finally killed the fucker… whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Either way, the alley is all I remember of my childhood, now. I have nothing from before the day I met him. Well, almost nothing.
Whenever I’m unlucky enough to dream about it, like I was last night, I get vague impressions of an older woman’s wrinkled face. I don’t know if she’s a neighbor or a relative, but she takes care of me while mom is at the store or at work. In my dreams, she has dark skin like mine, and frizzy grey hair, and she smells like cigarettes and lavender laundry detergent.
I’m sitting in the alley, near the blue dumpster. It’s a quiet, private place in my busy city, in my crowded, loud apartment complex full of friends and neighbors and people and kids. It’s a cardboard-only recycling bin, so it doesn’t even smell bad. I feel comfortable, and safe there. Not hungry, not dirty.
A faded red door is cracked open, set in the brick wall of my building in this back alley entrance, and I know it’s a safe place, where the old woman lives. Her kitchen window faces me so she can check on me from inside. I stay near the window, like she told me to do. I’m playing with a toy, a little wooden top with a ripcord that makes it spin crazy fast.
A shadow falls on me, and I look up.
In my dream, as I’m being carried away by him, I hear that old woman screaming my name. I wriggle and try to look over the man’s shoulder, but he bundles me into a car.
I woke up this morning in a cold sweat with that woman’s voice ringing in my head.
Kira was gently snoring in the bed, the bedroom was soft and quiet and safe, but I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I went looking for something to do.
With a growl of frustration, I slam my fist into the punching bag hanging in the private gym in the basement I found while wandering around. I have the whole place to myself, since everyone seems to be sleeping in from the party at the lake last night. It’s a big facility, with a mirrored wall and racks full of weights and a whole boxing ring, but I’m sticking with the punching bag. I need the impact, I need the heat, I need to let my anger out.
It isn’t working very well.
On the edge of some kind of psychological implosion, I tear my shirt off, rip off the boxing gloves I’d found on a nearby shelf, and start wailing on the leather bag even harder with my bare knuckles. I want to scream, I want to tear it to shreds, I want to see itbleed. I want to see myself bleed.
My muscles burn from the exertion, sweat slicks my skin, my chest heaves as I gulp down air, and my back aches. The bruises from my second-story stunt the night before are congealed all down my spine in black blobs. They hurt, but I push through it, because I can’t handle sitting still right now. I can’t handle thinking, or remembering, or anything at all. I just can’t handle any of this.
I hear voices and pause, panting hard. I grab the bag to silence the chains just before the door to the gym opens and a gaggle of boys tumble inside. I stiffen, gritting my teeth as Brian, Gregory, and Leonard, followed by a couple unfamiliar faces, head toward the weights while rough-housing and laughing. I can see them in the mirror that runs along the wall, but they haven’t seen me yet.
I want to slink away without being seen; not because I’m scared, but because I’m so fucking angry that I know I’ll do something stupid if I–
“Well, who do we have here?”
I tense up even more and glare like a son of a bitch, so hateful and angry that my eyes feel hot. But Brian looksconfident, arrogant, maybe feeling safe because last night I ran away. He scoffs, tapping his two best buddies and making his way over. The brothers join him immediately, but the other two boys, whom I vaguely recall meeting with Kira, are a little more hesitant and confused.
“Claremont,” Brian smirks, he and his two boys circling me. “You look a little rough. Ooh, and that bruise looks bad. Did you fall?”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and stalk past him, shoulder checking him as I go. The brothers don’t like that, and both shout ‘Hey!’ and ‘Whoa!’ and Brian grabs my shoulder and yanks me roughly back around.
“Try that again!” He snarls. “Try putting your hands on me again, let’s see how it goes. You weren’t so tough last night, were you?”
