Branded memories

I can't help staring at you. At the long scar that works its way
down the side of your left leg. You're wearing a red dress and I sit in
the dark, huddled with my chin on my knees. Sometimes I think you must
be a magic woman because the fire is almost too hot even from my
position, and you're no more than an arm's length away. Your clothes
should have caught fire by now, but you don't seem bothered by the heat
at all. And as you continue to dance around the furnace, closer than
anyone else can manage, twirling your red dress so that the flames try
to lick the hem, I can only think about your scar.

I have to keep reminding myself that you're not magic and you never
will be. You made me feel loved like no one else has ever managed, but
you don't even know me. It's been a long time, but you haven't changed
since you gave me that hug. Not like I have anyway. And you were the
one who stopped me changing too much. Thank you.

I don't know how you got that scar, but I first saw it when I was
nine, the day it happened. I remember sobbing, screaming with the pain,
unable to control myself. It must have hurt your ears I screamed so
loud. You just held me and didn't try to make me stop. You were naked
and kneeling on the kitchen floor, your arms tight around me. It's
weird to be frightened by the sound of your own screaming, but even now
I am. Ten years on and sometimes when I shut my eyes I can still hear
my own blistering cry, accompanied by the image of the scar on your leg
that was all I could focus on. Sometimes I have to open my eyes and
take a few deep breaths to make it go.

Seeing the scar again somehow brings back the memory of the pain and I
almost feel angry, as though you're taunting me with it. I keep having
to stop myself from being annoyed that you would wear something that
shows it. I don't know whether that's because it makes me remember or
because it means that you're sharing it with other people. My body
itches as I look at you. It feels like ants are crawling over the
mangled lumps and bumps of skin on my chest and sides and legs. The
heat from the fire makes me want to shut my eyes, but somehow I
daren't. I don't want the sound of the scream to come back as
well.

I wouldn't have come to this party if I'd known you would be here and
that's terrible because you're my saviour and I think your the only
woman I'll ever love. But my memories of you are too wrapped up in the
pain. It's late now, well past midnight and people have left me well
enough alone. I guess they assume I'm drunk like everyone else is. No
one seems that bothered to talk to me anyway, everyone seems enthralled
by the dance that you're taking part in. I don't know what you're doing
here because I'm sure you don't know any of the same people as I do.
And you're ten years older, what are you doing at a party full of kids
like me?

This is ridiculous, I've got to stop this. You were just my
baby-sitter. I think you looked after me a few times when I was
younger, but after the incident you never came again. You used to stay
the night and Mum or Dad would drive you back in the morning. I hope
the reason you never came back wasn't because you felt guilty. You
musn't even feel that. You didn't do anything wrong. I hope my parents
told you that as well.

But you're not just my baby-sitter because you've grown in my mind
since then. You were the first naked woman I ever saw; of course you're
going to become my fantasy, my only ideal. You've become a myth to me
because I haven't seen you since. Maybe if you hadn't just disappeared
after that day then I'd be over you by now.

There have been times when I haven't been able to get the scar out of
my head and so instead of trying to get rid of it I linger on it,
imagine how you got it. Perhaps in a mad dash through the forest as you
escaped from wolves, carrying the baby that they had abducted against
your chest. Perhaps as you battled your way through the thorns that had
grown around the enchanted castle, you determined to save a child whose
tortuous screams echoed through the walls. Mostly though I try not to
think about it at all.

But now I can't help it, because you're right here in front of me. The
fire glows orange on your skin and it makes me upset at how disgusting
I am in comparison. Most of the guys here are still wearing shorts
because it was so hot today, but I can't because I'm too ashamed of the
way I look. My life's been hell since you gave me that hug.

My memories of that day are strange because I know some of it can't
have happened like it did. It's turned into a slow motion movie in my
head. I always see the pan turn three times in the air before the water
and vegetables spill out. But first I see my parents going out and
leaving you in charge. You silhouetted against the bright sunshine as
you wave goodbye to them from the door. You turning and coming into
view as you step out of the light. I don't know how much time really
past before you said to me "Right, I'll put on your dinner and then
I'll have a quick shower...", but in my mind it happened
immediately.

And then you in the shower, which I know I never saw, hearing my
screams and dashing out, wrapping the white towel around you, and
finding me bawling, in more pain than I let myself remember. You
running towards me, and pulling off my hot wet clothes. Tipping
freezing cold water over me with anything you could find and then
ripping off your towel and soaking it before wrapping me in it. Holding
it tight around me, only letting go to tip more cold water over
me.

I'm sure you spoke to me, but I don't remember much after the hug. The
movie stops at the unsatisfying finale, the sound-track stuck on the
sound of my own scream; the image frozen on your scar. And I know the
movie will never end acceptably because my own scars will never go
away. There can't be a happy, healing ending. At the most there will be
this: an improper epilogue where I see you again and again and
again.

You continue to dance around the flames as you always will when
there's nothing else to distract me. You, who's become the magic woman
in my mind. You, who held me so tight and then disappeared from my
life. I don't know where you are now, but sometimes I can almost not
hate my scars because they brand me with the knowledge that you were
once real, not just an adolescent's fantasy girl. Soon someone will
talk to me and I'll be distracted again. The flames that are licking so
close will again consume you. And I can get on with my life.