Persona Non Grata

I looked at the white folder laying peacefully in the passenger seat then reminisced again those words that are supposed to encourage me but sounded offensive to me.

'You have talent Martha, but every piece you write lacks passion and love. You're writing soulless stories. Characters shouldn't be just characters— they should sound real. They should feel real. I'm giving you your last shot. Dig inside of you, and find that missing piece of yours. Every one of us has a story to tell.'

I took a deep breath and stared at the abandoned house. Eleven years? Twelve? I cannot even dare to remember. For I already buried it all. The pain, the agony, the memories...

Pleasant Oaks plantation at North Carolina of Wilmington, was where it all started.

I walked in the wet grass careful not to make any noise. Even though the houses here are far away from each other, I still have this strange feeling that someone is watching me.

One step, then...creak.

The sound of the floor sent me shivers down my spine. I closed my eyes to the raging sense of fear and anticipation.

I slammed the door open and was surprise to find out that I'm still standing and not breaking down. The whole house was pitch dark. I even have to blink my eyes countless of time just for me to adjust to the sudden impact of the darkness.

It's all dark. Funny how my brain rejects all the flashing memories and just pretend that it's nothing, but my whole body, my whole system is reacting to the whole surrounding. Everything seems familiar to me. The atmosphere, the touch of the wind, even the smell of dust.

I almost shrieked out when I found something laying just beneath the small corners of the window. It's a little snowman. My little snowman.

Then it hit home. I am finally dragged down by the memories.

"Adelia!" there came my drunk father holding his empty bottle of beer.

I am startled again just by the way he shouts. I was at the corner of my little room, playing with my little snowman when I heard a slamming of the door. Then after that, I saw my worried mama running after me.

"Martha, I need you to stay right there." Then she pointed the little cabin at the corner of the attic.

I asked her why but she just answered, 'Go!'

After that, I heard the both of them shouting. My papa from anger, my mama from pain.

I held my little snowman close to my heart and silently prayed for them to stop.

'Lord, please help my mama.' I prayed.

But there are really times when you suddenly wonder if He is really there? Is it true that He is willing to help us?

The following second made me answered my questions...

BANG!

No... He isn't there. He's not going to help us.

I watched how my papa nervously held my lifeless mama in his arms. I cried and cried silently then covered the little hole of the cabin that allowed me to watch that heart burning scene.

I stared at my smiling little snowman and envied him for that perfect smile.

When mama died, I already knew that life is dark. But after she died, I never thought that it could be dark as an ink.

I pulled myself together again and finally had the courage to face him after his hand landed at my right cheek for the nth time.

"You killed mama! You killed her!" I shouted and shouted until I can no longer hear my own voice. It's not because I'm deaf, but because even my own voice already left me.

My mouth watered with blood because of the impact of his fist on my stomach. I lied helplessly on our dusty floor preparing myself for the another attack.

I hate Him. Is this the life He wants me to have? To suffer in infinite agony?

Minutes passed, I didn't get the punch I expected myself to have for the dinner. Instead, I heard loud police wails.

My heart pounded. Mixture of fear, excitement, hope and courage are smoothly running in my veins.

I watched how my papa angrily points his gun at me. He must've known what I did last night while he was asleep.

"You went to the police did you? Did you?!" He pulled me by the collar of my knee high dress. The only dress mama sewed for me.

All the courage that I was slowly building seconds ago, was suddenly blown by the wind. Am I going to die? Is he going to do the same thing with me?

If that's the case, will I be happy? Maybe yes... because that only means I'll be with my mama.

He forcefully pushed me to the corner of our living room then pointed his gun under my chin.

"You miss your mama don't you? Say 'hi' to her for me."

I remembered how she cooks every night for him, how she took care of us even when she's sick. I remembered her. I remembered all her sacrifices. And that gave me the courage to fight back.

I was supposed to kick him when our door slammed open and then dozens of policemen came running towards him.

I cried while looking at him struggling to take the cuff of. That's my papa. My papa I used to love.

"We found it!" shouted the tall policeman while holding up packs of marijuana my papa treasured more than us.

I cried harder when a policeman accidentally dropped our one and only family picture. I ran towards it, not minding the chaos happening around me.

"My family..." I whispered while looking intently at the broken glass. I watched how the small drop of tears ran from the top to the bottom of the frame.

"What's your name?", said the female police officer.

"Martha... Martha Stevenson."

"How old are you?" I am 8. And I have already experienced being abused emotionally and physically.

I held back my tears to speak properly. This is only my fight now. I'm already alone in here.

"I'm 8."

I lived alone after that. Trying to recover from my nightmare.

I found myself sitting the same spot I used to sit every time I play with little snowman. But right now, it's different. I came back here because they're still haunting me.

'I told you, end it now. So you won't have to experience it all over again.'

I immediately opened my eyes, and to my horror, I saw someone. Someone I haven't seen for a long time, but didn't miss.

My heart is racing so fast when I heard someone whispered, 'End.'

'End. End it now.'

I wiped my tears so I can see clearly. "Who are you?"

'I am the person whom you longed seeing for a long time. I am the only person who can help you.'

I laughed at his words. "Help? Can't you see? I am alone already! My mama left me! My papa left me! It's been years—5 years that I am screaming for help! I don't need help anymore! I'm so tired of begging!"

I screamed and wildly threw away all the objects that are spotted by my eyes. This little room I have provided for myself made me feel more alone and I hate it. I hate being alone and yet I hate people entering my life.

'I can help you with that.' He showed something and I was startled to find out that it was a blade.

"No. I won't hurt myself. I promised myself I'll survive, even when I'm alone."

'This won't hurt. It'll even help to ease the pain. I'll help you... Let me do it for you.'

I watched him as he slowly walked outside the dark corners of my little room. I don't know him, but it feels like I have already met him.

I slowly lifted my short skirt and waited for the blade to satisfy my thirst.

I almost shouted the moment my skin touched the lips of the blade... It should feel scary and disgusting, but I felt the other way.

"I feel satisfied." I said while looking intently at the blood dripping from my thighs down my knees.

One. Two. Three. Three lines of satisfaction...

BAM!

I was shocked when I heard the door of my apartment flew open, then there I saw Nikka, my neighbor, who's looking at me with shocked eyes.

"What are you doing?! Martha!"

My eyes immediately flew to my thighs, and I was appalled to see my own hand holding the blade!

With shaking hands, I dropped the blade and cried because of confusion and fear.

"I didn't do it Nikka! I— I was just— There's someone who was here!"

She hugged me tightly while I'm still explaining things I can't even explain myself. It's like I'm convincing myself than explaining.

After more than 5 times of seeing that unknown person and almost killing myself, I finally called for help. With Nikka, whom in return became my friend, helped me in getting a psychiatrist.

"That's BPD, or Borderline Personality Disorder. People that are under that kind of illness often experience dissociation— like what you are experiencing right now. You tend to see that person in times of trouble and need. Your brain has made up that person so you can have someone to provide all your needs. But most of the time, the effect is always negative. Especially when what you really need is cruel, that imaginary friend of yours will provide you everything— even if it means risking your life. This illness is dangerous Martha, for your enemy is yourself. You are the victim of your own mind."

"Martha..."

Nikka once called me one afternoon bringing a news that shook my principles.

"Your father is dead. He died while in prison, and was buried in the public cemetery of Willington. Would you like to pay a visit?"

Something in me was shattered that day. Not because I miss him, but I realized that I'm not the same Martha anymore. My heart is so frozen already that I don't know if I can forgive him anymore.

I hurriedly ran outside the abandoned house— my house, while weeping continuously.

If there's one thing that I lack of, that would be acceptance and forgiveness. I cannot completely find myself if I will forever run away from my past.

I fasten my seatbelt then hurriedly went to the person whom I know will set me free.

My heart clenched the moment I stepped in the wet grass of the cemetery. I looked up and was thrilled to see the bright sky and the beautiful sunset.

I didn't came here years ago, but Nikka already told me where his grave was. I'm glad she did.

"Freddie Stevenson... Hi Papa..."

I swallowed the lump on my throat and whole-heartedly opened myself up in front of him. I cried while kneeling at his grave. I'm finally crying because of joy, not with anger.

I closed my eyes then suddenly remembered a book I once read, written by Fran Elizabeth Grubb titled: The Cruel Harvest.

"Gone but not forgotten. Forgiven but not understood." I murmured my favorite line of the book as I freed all the hatred I have managed to kept inside of me for how many years. I shivered because of the wind that caressed my arms. It's like he's watching me. It's like he's listening. I can feel him, with me, right now.

I can feel him, with me, right now

"Thank you all for reading my story titled, 'The Lost Soul'." I smiled as they handed me the first book that I have published.

"I really love the ending. The way how the main character described 'being free in the power of forgiveness' as her solace and rest."

I smiled at the teenage girl who's obviously still into the book. "I'm glad you liked it."

Indeed, we all have different stories to tell. And it's up to you on how you're going to make your story worth-remembering. I was once lost, but God looked for me like how a shepherd looked for his lost sheep. I was wrong when I said He wasn't there. For He always had watch me wherever I go, guide me in whatever I do. Maybe God let that tragedy to happen in my life for me to learn. Because God wants me to learn and be strong , for me to be exactly the way He wants me to be.

We all have different stories to tell... I am Martha Stevenson, and this is my story.

-- @BabaengDeep