I didn’t have a childhood; I don’t remember it. I don’t remember anything properly until age 13. I’ve heard stories; trips to disneyland, birthdays, holidays. I don’t remember anything.
When I was 15, a memory came back to me. A series of memories, in flashbacks.
I was four. I remembered all those times you left me alone in the basement; I remember crying so loudly that the neighbours called social services and I almost got taken away. I remembered that time you were on the telephone, screaming to somebody that you were going to kill yourself and me.
The last memory I have is of the day you killed yourself. I remember it so vividly that when I blink, I can see it; I can see you. You were in the basement. I saw you, I saw the police dismount your body and carry you away.
I protected myself from these memories. You died of cancer. I used to tell people you died standing up. I missed out on my childhood. I don’t remember anything, and now? Everything was thrown into my face two years ago, and now, now I can’t breath. I can’t sleep, I can’t move, I can’t talk to anybody. Because everything is moving too quickly.
Ruined. You ruined me.