Nea Kris

Let the pain flow

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Scars… everyone has at least one scar: on your body or on your heart. I have many scars in all shapes and depth. My heart probably has more scar-tissue than anything else, but those scars are invisible to strangers, so they are not interested in them. What about physical scars? I heard people are embarrassed by them, or I heard as others say that scars are “ugly”. Depending on the scar of course, but I don’t understand why would they think so? Each of my scars is a story, each of them is telling who I really am and what I went thru. I have many scars on my body, but the biggest one, the one I heard being called ugly once is my dearest scar. I did it to myself, because I was in pain and others probably thought that I was weak, but I don’t care. I was in pain, I was bleeding from inside, so I just expressed this pain. This scar defines that yes, I was crippled (I could not walk well for at least two weeks), the pain cut thru me, leaving this scar, which will never heal. This scar, which still itches, even though a year had passed. This is like a tattoo, just more truthful, without any beatifications. I am proud of my scars, they are scars of battle with life. Yes, I am not the best warrior, that is for sure, but I am trying. I am still trying to fight this lost fight… 

Tommy lifted his eyes and looked thru the window, over the brick cold wall. Why did these words sound so confident and desperate at the same time? Like she was a gladiator who is going to fight an unbeatable beast called Life and she knew it. How old was she? Why would she express herself thru scars? Tommy pulled up his sleeve to look at his scar. His dad threw a car detail at him once, which cut his hand deeply close to his elbow and the scar was still there. Tommy never hurt himself, probably because his dad took this duty into his own hands and was happy to work on it. That was not the only scar he had and he was still missing a tooth. He always tried to hide his scars, but maybe she was right. They are his history, they are what made him who he is now, independent individual, who had skeletons in his closet, which won’t let him to move any further in his life. Tommy looked at his scar, touched it with his fingers. She was right, there is no reason to hide them, because they are there and not going anywhere.

Tommy looked back at the diary. Poor girl. Why so many people must suffer from other people? He needs to find out why there is blood on those pages. That was not something that she did to herself this time. Mysterious THEY did this to her.

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Tommy. Second Page

P_20170628_080157_vHDR_Auto_1In the safety of his tiny room with only one source of light: the lamp on his table (there was a window, but it faced a brick wall of building next to it), Tommy pulled the purple diary from under his coat and put it carefully on the table. Along with his lamp he had a desk table, a bed and a very small dresser. Oh yes, and of course one poster on the wall: his favorite sci-fi show since he was a kid. He didn’t own much because he had only a part-time job at the repair shop, where people could bring any electronic device. He had less than 30 hours a week and got paid a minimum wage, because he didn’t have documents, and the owner was very happy to use this for his own benefit. Mr. Sanchez wasn’t a bad man and he knew how to crack jokes, but he always looked for a way to make more money for his own pocket. He was an overweight middle-aged man with black, thick hairs. Regardless of his pay, Tommy liked Mr. Sanchez. He never could imagine him being violent. All unspent money Tommy hid in a plastic bag under the wooden floor which was easy to pull in one place. He didn’t count how much he saved, because he didn’t see any need in buying anything extra. All he needed was at the library, where he liked to read books or articles on the computer.

It was early November: sunny, but a cold day, so before sitting down, Tommy turned on heater which he had to repair several times. This thing was too old. Then he sat down and looked at the diary. A chill ran down his spine, but at the same time he felt excitement. This little notebook was somebody’s life, a life that he could now see from the inside. He didn’t know where to begin. He wanted to begin from the start of the diary, but at the same time he wanted to know what happened to this girl and if it was an emergency.

Tommy opened the dirty notebook and flipped a few pages, looking at the letters and small drawings. The pages were dirty and wet at some places so some of the writing was gone. Finally his eyes caught a picture somewhere in the middle of the diary which reminded him of a bleeding scratch. He stopped and bent his head lower to the page to see what was written on it and why this scratch or cut was bleeding.
“Scars…” – Tommy read the first word.


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Tommy. First Page

That was what Tommy saw on the last page of a dirty diary. Tommy didn’t have the luxuries of a good life. His mom ran away with a rock band musician when he was 10 years old. One morning he heard a noise and his dad’s scream, “Lora? Lora!”. Little Tommy sat up in his bed and looked through the window with his sleepy eyes. His mother, Lora, was at the car, opening its door in a rush, throwing in her bag on the back seat and jumping in right after. The car looked small and rusty, but it got away very fast so his dad couldn’t catch up. Tommy remembered that his dad, David Blackmoore, was just standing there on the street in his robe, looking at the corner where the car disappeared. Maybe he hoped that it would come back? But not that day, nor the next five years did Lora (or that car of that stinky rock “start”) come back.

His dad wasn’t a saint or even nice, Tommy knew it. He understood why his mom ran away. She was tired of her drunk husband, who liked to hit her in places normally covered with clothes, so no one can see. He used to be a police chief, now retired, and he had enough connections to cover his crimes. Tommy couldn’t understand only one thing: if his dad was so scary for a grown woman, how could she have left her own son behind? Was it because he looked almost like a copy of his father? Or she just didn’t love him? It broke little Tommy’s hearth, so most of his time he spent in his room, studying or repairing things for neighbors. His father tried to be a good father, but of course, time to time he was too drunk to try and during those nights Tommy felt everything that his mom used to feel. Everyone was saying that Tommy had a bright future, because he was so smart, but life is twisted. In the end, when he turned 15 and made a wish to see his mom again outloud, he lost his tooth when dad’s fist hit his face, he run away from his home with promise to never come back.

Now he was 17 and he had held his promise. He had to catch cars on the highway to get to another state, where police wouldn’t look for him too much. He had one tiny room which he rented from an old cranky lady, who smoked Marlboro and has annoying little dog, which barked all the time. Probably she was 60 with something, very short even for her age and smelled like dusty yes-smoking room, where no one cleaned for a while. She always made these tall hairstyles, which reminded Tommy of some half-ruined towers he saw in history books. In return, he was fixing everything he could in her apartment building where about 20 families lived. Hard to say if his life got any better, but now he wasn’t afraid that his dad will come into his room and beat the crap out of him. Now he was on his own and it felt safer.

This morning he was walking through the park and in a dark corner, close to the boarder of the forest, he saw a notebook. It had a purple cover and dirty pages. It was opened and Tommy saw dried blood on the paper. He picked it up (in his life he got used to picking up garbage with his bare hands) and read the letters on the last page “Cold, why it is so cold?…”
He read the content of the page and some odd feeling appeared in his chest. Something bad happened to this girl (he assumed right away that it was a girl’s diary). It was scary, but at the same time something inside of him stopped him from throwing away that purple diary. Instead, he took it home to read more and try to understand what happened and why was there blood on the pages…

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Why pain doesn’t stop?

Why pain doesn’t stop? Day after day, month after month… it is evolving, changing, but still hurts and I cannot stop it. I can’t find a way how to stop it. It is exhausting… Pain is like a little animal that likes to scratch me from inside, cutting deeper and deeper with its claws. This animal can wake up from any little memory, from any word… Will this pain remain with me forever, until I finally will die? That is a good question.
… Sometimes it doesn’t matter how hard I try to forget about the pain and to be a person that I want to be. It hits me back and take away all my strength, so I am getting back to zero…