Memory

“I don’t remember anything from my childhood.”

Those words hurt.

What do I remember?

I remember the laundry room in my childhood home. We used to call it the ironing room because that’s where all of us ironed our clothes. There was a small space between the ironing table and the cupboard where the ironed clothes were kept. I used to feel very safe in that space, until one day, I saw someone’s shadow outside the window.

My mind started running a marathon.

What if the person opens the window? Is it locked? What if he puts his face close—will he be able to see me?

After that, I decided to find a new spot.

It ended up being under the guest bedroom bed. From there, I could hide and also hear what was happening. At least I would know if my grandmother opened the door for anyone. There was a rolled-up mat under the bed, so even if someone looked in from the doorway, they wouldn’t see me.

It’s not like they would’ve hurt me if they found me.

I don’t know why I was scared of them. They had never hurt me. I don’t even remember being scolded as a child. I don’t think I was a difficult child. I used to lie about studying and homework sometimes, but it never caused any real problem because I always managed to finish my work and get decent marks in all subjects.

There is one more memory.

I remember dancing to songs with them in the studio. I guess I was happy.

I don’t know...... was I happy?

I never really thought about it.

Once, when I was hiding under the bed, a lizard fell on me. It makes me laugh now, but it scared the hell out of me then. I must’ve been around thirteen. I remember running to the church afterward, but I don’t remember why I went there. I used to make plans to run away through the back door while they waited at the front, but I don’t remember if I ever actually did it.

It all feels so stupid now.

Why was I running away?

What was I running from?

Why was I scared?

Why did I always cry, curled up in that little space in the ironing room?

Was I just feeling sorry for myself?

Was I trying to prove to myself that I was the victim and not the reason for all the pain and sorrow?

Villains don’t cry, right?

Maybe that’s why I cried, to convince myself I wasn’t the villain.

Was I part of the problem?