What I can remember..

I remember feeling alone and always wary, growing up.
Yet I still have vivid memories of happines. Glimps you might say of how loved and free I was.
Dirt, stone flooring with stone walls.
Just like a cave on a cliff of a mountain, is where I remember my feet always walked as a child.
At what age, I wouldnt have the faintest Idea.
I remember glimps of people, inside and outside of the mountain.
Greenery mixed with stone and dirt. Everywhere.
A lake inside the mountain that also led you out many paths.
Paths that fed the many lakes that formed on the cliff banks of the outter mountain,
Forming water falls that fed the small river below.
And in turn, Fed the land and the animals.
Which nourishes our tribe.
I remember this like the imprint of breathing.

I remember sleeping.
And then waking in a cart full of people.
We were all laying on top of each other, squashed like a package. Wrapped and tied.
The smell was of rot and shit was putrid. Hurts my stomach and head to take one breath.
Moans and groans, mixed with cries and loud please suffocated the air, all around me,
While my cries join them too.
The pain of being restrained was unbearable.
Felt like my body was on a constant battle of torment. physically and mentally.
I remember being unwrapped.
That hurt my skin and bones.
The slicing burning feeling comes to mind when they dumped my body in water and scrubbed me like a dish.
That hurt my skin and bones.
I remember this like the imprint of breathing.

I remember men and women walking around the room.
I'm on display, while a skinny man holds my life by chains and stick.
Women looking at me. poking and prodding.
Twisting my body and head while fingering in my mouth and hair.
Men tearing the small holes on my cloth, forming bigger tears and bigger holes around my private areas.
looking and touching exposed areas.
I am not the only one, there were many more. Girls and boys.
All on display, like I am.
Tears rolling down my face while a stick being blasted over my legs for weeping, by skinny man.
Chains shackled to my feet, arms and neck. Held by skinny man.
Looking around the room I see the enjoyment on their faces. Some more than others
Demands for me to kneel with my mouth wide open by skinny man.
Demands of me bending over a chair by skinny man
No one stopped it and no one cared to.
When light came through the giant windows, I was put away under the house.
Sealed from anything and anyone.
This became a weekly routine for me.
I am only a child.
I remember this like the imprint of breathing.

At nine years old I was taken.
No-one noticed nor cared where I was or if I was even alive.
Taken to the sewers, I was left to die.
Every day I grew sicker and sicker, unknown what to do or if i was safe to move.
Days maybe weeks went by when a light came from a side tunnel.
I could hear a voice.
I could feel the water trembling against my skin.
I can remember being lifted but i do not know how i came to be here.
In this room with a small window.
Warmth came over me in that moment, and I don't know why.
Scared of the unknown, yet happy to be free from the sewer
I slept hoping I would never wake. I don't want to know what is next.
Please let this be the end.
I remember this like the imprint of breathing.

I remember my belly swelling as time went by.
Movements inside me is making it know that something is wrong with me.
Yelling to whomever is keeping me captive in this room.
No face nor voice was seen or heard for weeks on end, just food being slid under a door.
Blankets and cloth being thrown through the small window.
I wear no chains, yet I'm cemented to the room I'm kept in by fear of the unknown.
Dreaming of escaping through the small window, but still cemented to the small room.
I lay in hope that whatever is in me, will take me to heaven or hell.
Either place is better than living.
And when the day came for which, I though was the end.
A new life was about to enter the world and I had no clue at all.
Terrified, sore and exhausted,
I heard a man's voice.
Introducing himself through cloth over his mouth, Muffled, i could not hear him, nor have the energy to fight him.
Pain was so excruciating and every breath I took, I kept weeping and begging for my last.
I want to die, I want to die, I remember shouting as my child slipped into this cruel world.
The man's eyes smiled as a cry came from my body. A cry that was not my own
"Hush Child", he cooed to the baby as he pulled the cloth from his face.
"Hush Child", he cooed as he stared into my face while placing the baby to my breast.
"You are safe" he smiled as he placed the blanket on top of me and the baby.
I remember feeling thankful and tired. Hungry and scared.
I remember being afraid of this man, afraid of the unknown.
I remember this like the imprint of breathing.

I remember my child.
I remember the Asian man who helped me bring her into this world and care for her.
A man who loved my child as his own, But not me.
I remember his name, Horoshima
A man who never let harm to my child but will do onto me.
I am not his captive, but somewhat his wife now.
He is my hero, but also my captive.
I remember my child's smile and the way she would look at me like nothing in this world could hurt her.
I wanted to do that for her. Make sure she would have no harm.
Knowing I couldn't do this alone, Horoshima could protect us and I will learn how to, from him.
I remember Horoshima making our family final by moving us downstairs and consummating our relationship.
Day by day I found myself learning more and more on how to survive from Horoshima.
Hunting and sewing. Cooking and taking care of a child and myself. Horoshima taught me this.
How to use a Knife to hunt and to protect.
What to say and what not to say.
How to hide and when to attack.
My daughter was his daughter. I was his wife. He said so. I believed so.
I was not unhappy.
I was only a child. Whom had a child. And now a husband.
I remember this like the imprint of breathing.

At Twelve/Thirteen, I was found in the attack of China man.
His corpse attracted people to the house.
The smell reminded me of when I was taken. but I did not want him gone.
The hurt I felt when they scrapped his body of the floor, killed me more than breathing itself.
I loved him. He loved me.
I remember being told to get our things ready as we need to leave.
Fear racing through me like as if I was a little girl again.
Not for me but for my child.
A women collected me saying we were to leave with her with nothing but a bag of belongings for me and my child.
Put onto a buggy, we left our home and followed the cart with Horoshima's dead body.
At a crossroads, I said goodbye to my husband as the driver passed me coins as payment for his body.
I watched his body go the other direction as my daughter and I were carted the opposite direction.
I'm so angry he is gone. I'm so hurt he has left us alone. I hate him for leaving. I love him for loving me.
I want Horoshima back.
I remember it took a few days to get to our destination.
A home for young mothers.
A place where young mothers can give birth and raise their children while learning how to care for them, as so I was told.
I remember never seeing an infant nor a child.
There was no pitta patter of feet nor cries of hunger.
My child was the only voice you could hear through the hallways of this building.
Nothing seemed safe here. Nothing never seemed safe since Horoshima.
I remember this like the imprint of breathing.

I remember the women, coming to my room constantly.
Focusing on my child with eager with every visit she gave us.
No one knows we are here.
No one knows who I am nor my child.
But I know they want her. They think they are going to have her. But she is mine.
I remembered being called 441. That was my name.
And the more they used it, the more I was exactly that. Number 441
I remember one night, the women tried to take her.
Saying she was sick and needed help.
I remember arguing and shoving.
My child was not sick nor crying.
I remember the women shouting out to others to "Restrain me", "I'm hurting my child".
My child was not sick nor crying.
I remember hearing a piercing scream from my child as she was being led away.
My blood boiling with rage and hate, I grabbed the closes thing I could grab.
Something small and long, I through my arms every direction I could.
I remember blood all over me as I kept stabbing and kicking, what or whom I was stabbing, I did not care.
Two bodies on the floor as I stand within their blood.
My child is mine. Not no man or women's.
She is mine.
I remember this like the imprint of breathing.

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To Be Continued..

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