Dear Stranger, I hope you're listening.
Last night I dreamt of a memory, one recounted to me time and time again, by my mother most of the time. A waking nightmare I don't even remember.
I was just a baby, barely a year old, when the winter of 99 hit. Back then we lived on a farm in the middle of the French countryside, me my 4 sisters, 2 brothers and mom and dad. It was a messy childhood, most of our time we spent outside in the forest and surrounding lands, as far away from our parents as possible.
We didn't see the times he hit her, the moments she hurt him. We didn't see the hidden bottles of alcohol belonging to the both of them. We weren't there when he pushed her out of a window. We were there when he stuck a fork in my sister's forehead.
When nighttime came, my mother tried her hardest to keep me warm, but the cold of the night was too harsh, and she was starting to panic. She got out of bed, carrying me in her arms and collected all of my siblings. We had to cross the farm to take refuge in the barn which was better insulated, meaning warmth that could save my life.
But that meant we had to go out in the cold night. I was bundled up in a myriad of scarfs and blankets when we stepped out in the snow.
In reality we ran across the farm and ended up all sleeping in the barn, safe and warm through the night.
In my dream, the cold seeps in my skin, my mother's body carries no warmth, and my father's absence confuses and upsets me. The barn is too far away, I don't cry, I watch as my siblings run forward. I know they're going to be ok. As ice pierces my skin I wonder if this was the way it was supposed to be.
The cold becomes warm, becomes nothingness, becomes peace.
The dark night takes me with it, my future and my pain, my hopes and my deceptions, no one can hurt me in the cold, I don't feel the hot fingers of life pressing on me, forcing me to breath, forcing me to hurt.
This was the way it was supposed to be. I stay in the nightmare.
Love, C