They scrubbed me.
Cold water. Bar soap. Steel wool.
I screamed once.
He told me silence was the only path to redemption.
When it was over, they wrapped me in a towel and made me pray again. I don’t remember the words I said. I just remember the way my arms stung when I reached for that cardigan the next morning, slipping it on over the raw patches that looked like burns but weren’t.
No one at school asked. Maybe they knew better. Or maybe I just smiled big enough and said “Good morning” loud enough to keep their questions quiet.
I should’ve thrown that cardigan away.
But I didn’t.
I buried it in the trunk at the foot of my childhood bed, under old school notebooks and pictures I left behind. That button came from there. Which means whoever left it… they’ve been in my parents’ house. They touched the things I buried. Not just the ones I broadcast.
I set the sandwich down, appetite gone.
The button is slick with sweat from my palm. I stare at it like it might start speaking. Maybe it already has.You remember us. Don’t lie.
I do remember. I just never wanted to. I spent years becoming someone else. Someone glossy. Someone powerful. Someone who doesn’t flinch when someone pays her attention.
And now they’re digging her back up.
I slide off the couch, still holding the button, and go to the kitchen. I don’t know why. Maybe I need the light. Maybe I just need to move. The tile chills my feet as I lean against the counter. The button’s still slick from my palm.
Someone opened that trunk.
Someone was in that house.
Not mine.
Theirs.
A sharp cold sweeps down my arms.
I haven’t been back in years. Not since the last screaming match. Not since Debra said I looked possessed and Michael offered to have the pastor “talk” to me. I left a lot behind that day: books, clothes, photos. I didn’t care. I thought the farther I got from that place, the less of it would stick to me.
But they were there.
Inside that house.
Close enough to smell the stale potpourri in the hallway and the mildew in the basement. Close enough to touch the bed I grew up in. The one I used to curl up on while praying not to burn in Hell for wanting things I didn’t have names for yet.
That cardigan was sacred. Not because of what it meant, but because of what it covered. I wore it to hide bruises and belt marks. I wore it when I needed to feel invisible. When I needed to survive.
It was the only thing I never wanted to bring with me when I left. And now it’s followed me, anyway.
I grip the button tighter, feeling it dig into my skin. My jaw clenches, and my breath comes hard and hot through my nose. Not from panic.
From rage.
They wentthere. Tothem.
They think they can go poking through my past like it belongs to them. Like those memories are theirs to hold, to mock, to use as leverage. Like they’ve earned the right to touch what I buried.
They didn’t just watch. They trespassed. Not just into my space. Into my story.
