Taking some old photos in hand, I struck the match and it lit with an acrid smell. I watched it for a moment before touching the dancing flames to the edge of the first old photograph.
The pictures are of me and my abuser from holidays, pictures of me having to sit next to him. The look on my face could not more vividly convey my torture than if I were screaming. My silent despair speaks volumes. The photographs bear silent witness to my pain--a pain that was so overlooked and ignored that these same pictures went into the family photo album.
If I destroy the pictures, there will no longer be a tangible reminder of all those years of pain however I already bear the emotional scar. That won't go away by burning the photos. In fact, it would be destroying a piece of evidence of how ignored my misery was. The information was there for anyone and everyone to see but they ignored it. Anyone who claims that I hid the pain too well for them to have had a clue is lying. They should have had a clue but it not something they wanted to see.
I lit the match, but in the end I blew it out.
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4 comments:
{{{{{{Angel}}}}}}
{{{{{Angel}}}}}
In some ways I am pleased you didnt burn them. They bear witness.
(((hugs))) I have some pictures that I've torn up. And others I have kept. For me, I need to keep some so I know he is real and not all in my head.
I know that is a tough choice. I went through the pictures on my computer and cropped out every trace of my abuser. But, he also still exists in several printed pictures, and I can't get rid of them. Maybe I should, maybe you should. I don't actually know. In the meantime, its like you said, they bear witness.
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