Under His Temptation

Jacksonville, Florida

March, 2003

***

I want to be normal like other kids. Enjoy my childhood with a man who loves me unconditionally instead of taking away what shouldn't be taken away, especially when he labels himself as a father even though he is just an extended family member. He is damaging the trust that had been built after George left.

Leaving a wound on the neck becomes a nightmare for the rest of my life. Now, every time I look in the mirror, I feel useless and dirty as a human being. The wound is a silent witness and the biggest secret that must be hidden until adulthood.

Now, I sit with my knees crossed in the playroom, ignoring the pile of storybooks and several toys. I had a few memories of George, especially in the summer. The thin lips that George lowered to me puffed up like Mother's cookies, but tears fell every time I felt his loss.

"Lizzie..." a soft voice called me.

I didn't move, choosing to stay and fantasise about being with George. But, when the skin hit by the cooling machine felt the touch, my brain reacted violently. As a result, I screamed as loud as possible like a crazy person. Flashes of that night when my father forced me to do what he wanted came back to haunt me.

The voice that was supposed to be soft and calming turned scary. I covered my ears tightly with my body shivering. The faces in front of me changed to the faces of my father, who was grinning while brandishing a shiny knife ready to slice every inch of his body.

"Hey... hey... Girl... Lizzie..." The voice tried to pull me from the brink, but I persisted because my father's voice filled all that filled my head. I ran, cornered myself and thrashed myself, wanting the sound to go away.

"Lizzie... it's Mommy, Baby..."

Mom?

I blame her. Why did she choose that man and trust him to replace George? He's not Geroge--a loving guy like Santa. He's just a monster who wants to ruin the lives of children.

A warm hug relieves all the tension in the body. Warm. The floral aroma with a hint of peach soothes my madness a little. It was George's scent—his last body odour before he was gone forever.

I cried, screaming for George. I don't need a psychiatrist but George. I don't need a mother either, but she is now holding and stroking her poor daughter's hair.

"Lizzie... it's Mommy, Baby... you'll get better, okay..." she whispered. "Mom is here, Lizzie. Mom won't leave you ..."