Dear Immature Boy

20 May

“The repentant say never a brave word. Their resolves should be mumbled in silence.” -Thoreau

T,
I do not know what to make of your note. You mention the last time you saw me. You tell me how great your life is. You tell me that you were an immature boy, but now you have changed. If I have misgivings or hesitations, you would like to talk about it if it would be a benefit. Do you mean a benefit to you… or to me?

I don’t recall seeing you at the concert, but I have completely blocked out or repressed most memories connected with you, so that I could survive and try to find some happiness in this life. I try not to remember, but since we are sharing…

The last time I recall seeing you was in my front yard. You were chasing me and it was dark outside, and we were waiting for your brother to pick you up. I ran in front of the oleanders beside the road. Suddenly you tackled me. I fell and skidded in the dirt between the grass and the pavement, scraping my knees, hands, and the side of my face. You ripped open my grey fabric pants. You ripped my underwear apart. You fucked me into the dirt so that small stones and grass got lodged into the broken skin of my face. The suddenness and violence of it all made me leave my body, made everything run backwards. My fear and pain, my anguish, my tears all flowed deep inside me instead of out. The headlights of a car appeared and suddenly you were gone, safe in your brother’s car. I sat for some time alone in the oleanders bleeding, and trying to think of what I should do next. I didn’t want my family to see me. My sister was asleep and my mother was hidden from sight in the kitchen. I ran from
the front door to my room and shouted a muffled goodnight to my mom so she would not come to check on me. I waited until everything was quiet. I went to the bathroom and tried to clean myself up. I picked all of the tiny stones out of my skin. My pants and underwear were evidence I would never be able to explain away. I put on new clothes and tennis shoes. I snuck out the window of my bedroom with my soiled and torn clothes. I went to the garage and grabbed a spade. I walked far into the desert behind my house. I dug a deep hole and buried my clothes and covered it up so no one would ever find it. I don’t remember walking home or going to sleep. When I woke up in my bed I felt completely numb. I didn’t cry when my mother and sister asked about my injuries, and I lied and made up a story to keep them from questioning me.

Is this what you meant that things may not be “cool” between us? Was this the boyish prank, the “immaturity” you were talking about? If so we have a completely different vernacular. You say you have changed… What does this mean? That you are a good person now and your upbeat letter proves this?

I don’t get it? Do you want to apologize to me? Are you asking my forgiveness? Are you looking for a chance to defend your actions or to place some blame on me for what happened? What?

If you want to apologize, be sincere, and own what you did to me. If you feel guilty and have remorse,  write about that in your diary. Otherwise forget it, we have nothing to talk about. I really have no interest in my past as it concerns you, and you are the last person I would like to rehash it with. As far as friendship don’t expect it. If you fear I will “tell” on you or try to get revenge somehow forget that too. I have no interest in revenge. So you get away scott free with no worries, so sleep well.

I’m not sure what you wanted by contacting me. I would never have contacted you. I can not end this as you did your letter, with best wishes, but I do not hate you. If that counts for anything.

–K

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2 Responses to “Dear Immature Boy”

  1. cdean May 23, 2009 at 8:00 am #

    You write beautifully.

  2. linzee August 14, 2009 at 2:30 am #

    You are brave, for not hating some one who has hurt you so badly.

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