Once upon a time, a young man proclaimed to his family that he was going to marry. The young woman he had chosen, bore the ropy scars of abuse that leave no visible trace. Those who knew, complicit by their silence in her abuse, donned pearly smiles at the celebration of the young couple’s union, glad to be absolved of the burden of her pain.
The children came quickly, each one punctuated by broken bones and festering wounds, filling an aching household that oozed dank, mildew emotions. Those who had been silent? Stolid. They averted their eyes from obvious bruises, laughing raucously at their own jokes, filling the space with anything but the pain her eyes could not contain.
Courage came upon her suddenly, sweeping up her pain in a pile that burned a gaping hole through the polished mahogany covered floor. Her fury, like a raging tornado, sucked up expensive furniture, anguish filled family photos, the thick curtains blocking fresh air, her wailing children. Almost every component of her “happy” home, disappeared through the hole forever.
The young man, who is not so young anymore, now has his own scars. I saw him yesterday, surrounded by her family who tut-tutted in sympathy, shaking their head to free the memory of her scars.