"keep some room
in your heart
for the unimaginable."
( marie oliver )
Growing up in a broken home is never easy. But then again, neither is growing up. Growing up with a broken soul is never easy. But then again, neither is growing up with a whole soul.
By who? My father. Not my Dad, my father. Why? We went to dinner one night. Driving home, we were hit by a drunk driver. My mom, and my two little sisters were killed. My dad, my older brother and I survived.
I guess in time my father started to blame the crash on himself. He couldn't bear it. He became an alcoholic. When that wasn't enough to ease the pain, he started to abuse me. Slap me. Punch me. And then it happened. One night he came home drunk and raped me. It became a regular occurrence.
Where was my brother? At an Ivy League College playing football. He came home to visit one night. Found me. Bruised and broken. My father was arrested. 50 years to life.
I finished high school. Graduated with honors. Great right? I made my way across the Atlantic to London. I'm currently attending the London School of Design. I live by myself in a tiny studio. I don't really have friends.. But my mannequins keep me company. Or scare the crap out of my when I go to get a drink at night.
Most nights I dream about my father. When he abused me. I've gotten used to the horror by now. Tonight just happened to be one of those nights.