Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Twisted ❯ II: Repression ( Chapter 2 )

II: Repression

 

Repression. It is my understanding that acts of repression have received a bad reputation. Like, repression of the Jews during Hitler's dictatorship. Like, repression of the blacks in America. Like, repression of religion in Europe. Like, repression of women's rights. Overall, I completely understand why repression is considered bad, immoral, and evil among other things.

 

But I secretly long to repress every memory associated with that damned summer.

 

Forgetting isn't an option; believe me, I've tried. Just when it feels like nothing ever went wrong with my life, it all comes rushing back to me. It's like the wonderful, beautiful fog that made itself home in my mind suddenly cleared; like my only protection against the brutal assault of horrific memories expired. It allowed me to pretend; it allowed me to push aside the shamefully growing hatred for my family deep within me. And then, almost in an instant, my safety is snatched away.

 

The process of remembering is almost always the same. Months would pass by with blissful ignorance before something brings back all of the memories. Last year, it was my perverted godbrother. It seems like the last few generations are becoming more sexually advanced than I myself am able to keep up with. The people in my family and the ones I associate with are no exception. We had been at the pool, my godbrother Steven, who was eleven or twelve, and I. Though my mom and sister left, we had wanted to stay and swim longer.

 

I wish I took my mother's advice and left with them.

 

You see, Steven is a boy and a growing one at that. I didn't really fault him when my mother told me he would stare at me, specifically my breasts, while I was in my bathing suit and that he had an erection because of it. In a way, I guess it was sort of my fault. My body has always developed faster than I was able to comprehend and I wasn't completely conscious of that. It wasn't the first time someone stared at my chest despite my age and it certainly wasn't the last. But, I digress.

 

We were playing around, splashing each other and being completely loud and stupid. It was dark and we would have to go back to my house before the pool closed, so a few more tricks wouldn't hurt anybody, right? That was what I was thinking before Steven climbed on my back. And then, on the count of three, I would flip under water and he would cling on to me and we would see who swam up first. That was our game, the one we had been playing for nearly three hours. I hadn't expected him to suddenly start thrusting against me so viciously.

 

And I froze. It didn't matter that I was bigger than Steven and could easily overpower him. In the time we were underwater, I wasn't fourteen anymore. I was five again in the bedroom of my aunt's small Bronx apartment. My cousin was on top of me, between my legs, his hips slamming into mine harshly and awkwardly with only our underwear as some sort of barrier. The only sounds would be his heavy breathing, my silent whimpering, and the low buzz of the television. We could hear my aunt in the living room, watching her Spanish soap operas—the ones that wouldn't be over for another forty-five minutes; the ones that unknowingly sentenced me to more silent agony.

 

It was like that every night: him on top of me, grunting and panting not from gratification but from the strain of moving so fast and hard against me, me with my eyes squeezed shut, my heart so loud in my ears as I tried really hard not to allow too much noise to escape me, and my aunt so far away, ignorant to my plight.

 

And as quickly as that unwanted and disgusting memory surface, I was fourteen again and running out of air as my godbrother continued to try to hump his way to physical euphoria. It was like I snapped out of my shock and fear and I just panicked. I swung my arms around and thrashed so violently I hit Steven in the face, ripped my nose ring out, and knocked the goggles off my face. He let go and I wasted no time in getting out of the water.

 

He acted like it never happened. “I win,” he had said, so fucking casual as if what he did was so easily dismissed.

 

I should've screamed, yelled, hit him some more, kicked him so hard in the balls that he would never be able to birth children. I should've told my mother as soon as we got to my house. I should've explained that the water on my face was a different kind of water, the salty kind that leaks from your eyes under times of distress. I should've explained that I was shivering not because of the cool evening air, but because I was so angry and disgusted and terrified.

 

But I acted like it never happened, too. I smiled and chatted all throughout dinner. I baked cookies for dessert as we rented a horror movie. I sat next to Steven on the couch and ignored the terrible pounding in my chest.

 

And, later that night, I wrapped, squeezed, my arms around me and cried, rocking myself against the wall in an attempt of comfort. I had to muffle the sounds of my anguish with a movie. I shrieked into a pillow and pulled my hair and hid in the closet, but it was all moot. That horrible stinging near my heart had me shaking so violently. I convinced myself that I was too scared to go to sleep because of the movie, but I knew deep down that I was terrified Steven would sneak into my room and try something.

 

All of those memories, all of that heartache, brought back in an instant by one little boy. I pretend it never happened; that what occurred that night at the pool was simply an incident between us. Try as I might, I can't bring myself to say it. I don't know if it's because the situations truly terrify me to the point where I freeze up or if it's because I'm too ashamed to say it aloud—maybe it's a bit of both. But, obviously my coping methods are no longer affected. The littlest things make me panic and I'm so tired of having to hide how much pain I feel. I'm tired of having to pretend that everything is alright and perfect in this fucked up world.

 

I know I'm being a hypocrite, one minute vowing not to forget like my family and the next wishing all of this shit was buried so deep in my mind that I wouldn't be able to tell if it were fact or fiction. I suppose I'm torn in my desire for these memories to be repressed; a part of me says it's good that I don't forget. All of that terrible shit that happened to me helped shape who I am today and I'm quite content with my character. But, on the other hand, is remembering my past really worth all the hurt I feel?

 

I would be better off repressing my memories, right? I'd be less fucked up if I forgot it all. Forgetting is so helpful…it would be so good…

 

…just this once.