You close your eyes as the wind brushes past your cheeks and the sun beats down on your golden hair while the sound of the birds vibrates in your ears. The grass surrounds your collapsed body as you take in the day around you. Breathing it in, you remember. Your tan legs cross over one another, and your perfectly pink painted toes slip in and out of your clean kept sandals. The icy white skirt connected to your clean dress acts as a simple guard against the piercing blades of grass that sweat against your skin. And, you remember.

Are depth and distance in the same reality? You wonder this. Your body relaxes back in the grass as you wonder this. And, you remember. It always hurt to remember. But it was never really a question as to whether or not you would ever forget. No, your body was stuck against the warm ground, your eyes practically sewn shut as you remember. Your mother always said you were “a pretty little thing.” So you always took pride in that. Being a pretty little thing. You would curl your hair, bake your skin, polish your nails, pack on layer after layer of makeup all in hopes that you could please those around you. Hopes that your sublimity could be noticed. The eyeliner and mascara can’t cover the memories. Simply remembering the past is enough to make you wash it all away. You cover your eyes with sunglasses as you remember.

The first time it happened you had never been more scared in your life. You covered it all with a layer of the fake skin and called yourself normal again. But you knew you’d never be normal again. You felt an ant crawl over your shoulder as you remembered. Everything was black and blue and you couldn’t hide it from yourself because memories like that don’t just go away. Everything was red and blistered and you couldn’t let go because pain like that doesn’t just disappear. You’re mother always said you were a “pretty little thing,” but you had never felt more ugly. You feel the sunset on your scalp as you remember.

The second time it happened, it was expected. You called the police, and the blue lights that painted your street were more beautiful than you had imagined. You had never felt more safe than in that moment. You opened your eyes this time as you remembered the look on your mother’s face. She should have known you’d ruin everything. You watched as they carried it away. Handcuffed and angry. You knew it’d be back though. It always came back.



The third time it happened, you didn’t think anything of it. It had become the norm. You tried not to provoke it. You watched the sky through your sunglasses as you remembered. It had been angry all night, so you stayed in your room hoping it wouldn’t take the time to come find you. You should have known better. It came in with a bat this time. Silver. Almost concrete. Or, at least that’s what it felt like as it collided with your thigh. You could feel the bruises returning. Black and blue. You closed your eyes again as you remembered. Your hand trails down the icy white skirt of your dress to wear the bruise still remained and you simply remembered how fresh the pain was even days later.



Then you remembered last night. You wrapped your arms around your thin, sundress-covered body and remembered last night. You took in the pain, and how sick you felt when it finished. You didn’t want to admit that it happened. You didn’t want the world to know that you had lost your innocence in a battle between yourself and the monster of your nightmares. So you didn’t think about it. No, you kept your eyes closed. Thinking about the world around you. Thinking about the Earth beneath your body. Thinking about anything else. But you still remembered. It’s hard to forget something so brutal. Something so sickening. You remembered how it cried and begged you not to tell your mother. How it said it was your fault. “You’re such a pretty little thing,” it said.

The funniest part about being alone in the world, is that even when the world around you is sleeping and quiet and almost inexistent, your memories become louder than voices. Louder than opinion. Louder than thought. They scream at you until you have nothing left to hear but the insistent cries of the past. You sit up, and open your eyes as the wind drowns out the birds. The tears spilled on your cheeks begin to dry. You couldn’t remember crying. Odd how the present can be painted over by the past. You feel your legs stand you up, they’re a little wobbly at first, but you manage. The grass you had laid on was formed in a perfect outline of your body, you smile at your frame. You forgot for a moment, the cause of your misery. But, it wasn’t long before you began to walk away with nothing left in the world besides your pretty little face. And a heart that knew nothing else but the process it takes to simply remember.