It is not Jane Austen is it? I’ve run out of words to describe the horrors I am going to tell you now. I’ve run out of words before I’ve run out of deeds. My deeds my words a person in certain time a part of history even if it is my personal story. My story has to be told and retold to grasp at the amazements that I have felt and fled from. Look now I am nothing it is of no importance it is the action of the person that makes the personality that shapes destinies that gives us people. If it wasn’t for small we would not have big he would not have been small it is scaffolding. If it were not for his father he would not have been such as they are parents shape us. For better or worse life is a mould of minds and then we expire into oblivion of the senses after that we can do no more.
I’m not making sense my dears? Listen it is a tale told by me the idiot in the attic the person no one listens to. I am not gibbering for nothing but making some sense of the vast amount of experience that has happened to shape me. The librarian, and the book keeper and the little girl in the attic pretending to be a great writer are all linked by fate because they all need each other. My parents so wanted me to grow up to have a family to look after the inbreeding and the breeding never happened because my brain. I have never grown up although now I am growing old. Is it any wonder as I stare at these pages that the story I will tell has never been told? I have nothing to declare but my story. It is the only deed that I have done that is better so far.
I want to tell this story so that I can pretend that everyone is happy about me telling the story. There is a wall of silence in my head as if the pictures are there but the sound is silence itself. I want to expire before I tell the story. I am no longer free to tell it differently to tell untruths to lie is not what I want to do. I must tell my story as positively as possible to be a bad psychologist is not on for the fire in my story involves that aspect of psychology. There am I in my 20’s being sexually abused by the man in my head in front of gaping parents and the three of them are abusing me day after day.
Parents sex life is ok because they see me being abused they are getting laid. Daily this happens they are happy except me.
“This can’t go on.”
“What is wrong this is what you want?”
“It can’t go on leave me alone.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Leave me alone.”
My parents observing as if the best show ever and the man is in my head wavers you call being telepathic. He is living it through them the incestuous sex crazy parents he is showing me what I have become.
“Leave me alone.”
“Wonder what you are now getting.”
“I face an orgasm?”
“That is right and who cares more for her family and what beasts they are?”
“It takes one to know one.”
“These were the family you left me for.”
“Leave me alone.”
“You got to be joking you are the best lay I’ve ever had.”
“Is that so?”
“That is right you are the best laid plucked little whore I’ve ever had.”
“You are joking aren’t you?”
“No it is my mind is made up I am going to burn you in front of the customers too.”
And he does.
Then he comes into the kitchen and lays me again. I am so brutalised as if my mind has gone. It is worse than being a whore it is immoral and degrading as if my mind will go. I am cutting something onions and the whiff is there the smell of onions for the stew. I take the butchers knife suddenly it happens so fast it is unbelievable and I go.
“But you moved my hand my dear why move my hand when that is what you want?”
“You murderer you could have had your hand off.”
“That is what I wanted.”
“But you can’t do that.”
“Why not is it any better than what you were doing?”
“But you are mad.”
“If you do it again this time I won’t miss.”
“Ah you are improbably insane most difficult common whore. Go and see that stupid psychiatrist won’t you?”
“I will and I’ll tell them what I just started to do.”
“Wait is it any better after you did that? Do you feel much better to have done that to me? Then why go to a party and nearly get laid? I don’t understand it?”
“Exactly what you don’t understand you don’t understand women my dear go and pick up a few hints.”
“I will be studying them diligently and you can be committed in hospital serves you right.”
“Don’t you touch me you terrible whoremonger.”
“No this is my house such as it is and you get lost.”
“I will leave you nothing.”
“You have left me nothing.”
He is anxiously waiting for Emine not to go but she is determined, outside at the bus stop, sees the bus and hops on it. She pays her money and is silent as if her world is grey. The street looks empty of something as if her emptiness has communicated to the street and left her gasping to be heard. She wants to shout her problem to shut out these streets to go some place where the thing in her head is no more. What can she do where can she got what use is she to anybody? Her insides are hurting her she is hurt he has hurt her and her hand is not even throbbing but protesting about something.
Suddenly she giggles she has not been seduced or abused she has escaped she knows this. At the hospital there is someone to see to her immediately. Pretending starts to explain why she doesn’t remember why she did it. She can’t explain it is too improbably personal. The psychiatrist listens nodding she is so amazed that he does not place her or sanction her. She wonders if the bloody thing she nearly did was not even noted. Emine is relieved that she won’t have to be hospitalised there is something called relief as she stares at the man’s hand as if it is suddenly fascinating. She notices that he is wearing a ring. She is suddenly tearful. She is so amazed that she feels something about another person’s hand. It is a decent hand she thinks it is his way of holding a pen and wearing a ring. It is not only for washing up and being a dishwasher is it she thinks? Hands and feet and the footsteps of the desperate to the desert spoons to the desertions and the departures and the coming and the going the gong sounded the sounds of the desperate whimpering the sounds of someone crying to the sound of the curtain ripping.
That week she notices all kinds of hands from her mums to her dads to the men in the cafe to the sisters who her to the woman at the shop to the girl at the bakery. The dustman, to the nurse, the midwife in the hospital and the student in the cafe to the paws of the cats she just notices nothing but hands. There are too many people with hands. She is noticing all these persons hands until she can scream with the pain of what she has done to herself and to her would be gone hand. Why is she suddenly thinking so much about hands? Whose bloody hand is it anyway?