I sat in my mother’s kitchen, staring at the bouquet of flowers he sent – the vibrant multicolored mishmash taunting me. As I leaned back against my chair, I felt it.. that strong tide of déjà vu… only the sensation was neither sudden nor fleeting. It was more like being caught in a continuous uprising… Waves twirling, undulating… momentarily resting only for me to be held captive by the lingering aftermath. A wreck – that’s exactly what I am. I am every bit as damaged as he is, after his business plummeted to the ground, dragging along with it my dreams of a blissful marriage. He sought comfort in bottle after bottle of that wretched poison. And I, in his beatings. They were unwelcome at first… but later I found, it was my only means of atoning myself… a way to make amends for my uselessness… my inability to help him with his situation. Only in the brink of death do I attempt to escape… only at nights when he’d come so close to killing me that I’d come running back to my mother’s house. But even as I sat there I knew, I was trapped – ensnared in this vicious cycle of fear and pain and guilt and forgiveness. I packed my bags.
A bouquet of flowers… that’s all it takes…
A petal for every pain
Soon do they wither.
written for The Līgo Haībun Challenge