The cold has brought, with it, a sadness. Things I remember that I wish and pray I could forget.
Winter used to be a joyful, nostalgic time for me. It was mine and mum's favourite time've year. I welcomed it happily. Now, I find, I am fighting disturbing memories of certain happenings.
This time last year I was living on a beautiful street in a not-so-good neighbourhood. It was a diamond in the rough so to speak. A small strip of old buildings and shops which take you away, seperating you from the scum that makes up the rest've the city: a small Italian diner, a hidden German bistro, an inspiring stained glass workshop, a small pet groomers, vintage and op shops etc. ...and a coffee shop.
That coffee shop became my safe place in the mess of things that were taking toll in my life then. It was a friendly place where I could spend hours upon hours reading their dictionary, observing the paintings, smelling the soothing aroma of the different blends've coffee they offered. I would try a new beverage each visit, then log it down in an attempt to try every one they had. It was my safe place. I adored and cherished it with my whole heart.
I met a man there. An older man. Old enough to be my father. He was an artist and he was the maker of most've the work in the shop. I was inspired instantly and looked up to him seeing as one've my impossible dreams is to sell a few've my works and have them hang in someone's home. Needless to say I was thrilled when he decided to take me under his wing, to help me better my use of charcoal, pastels and paint. Along with a mentor, I saw a father figure and someone who cared.
I frequently walked over to his studio beneath the café. More often than not, it was late at night between 11pm and 3am. There were two occasions where I was too tired to go home {5am}, and so I slept there.
I knew he took nude photography: a woman in the wood, women in ropes screaming in agony, a hopeless woman in a strait jacket, etc. I've seen nude photography and I love the beauty in the healthy human form. --Most likely b'coz I am not able to appreciate my own.-- I thought he must've had something dark within him, for in his photos of these women in agony, I saw myself. Nudity symbolising vulnerability, mixed with their distressed expressions and the far away look in their eyes. They were lonely to me; lonely, vulnerable, afraid and begging for a better life, for a happiness. I felt them. I was/am them.
One night he picked me up and sat me on his lap, holding me close. I suppose he took my saying I was cold as incentive. I didn't think anything. I was cold and he often hugged me. Sitting there in his lap, in his arms, I fought back tears. Tears of what I am still unsure. I felt like a small girl, a child again, sitting in daddy's lap, being comforted b'coz I'd had a bad dream. Maybe they were tears of finding something which had been lost. Tears of a sad joy to make up for lost time.
I was simply an unknowing prey.
He took advantage of me. He was one of two around this time last year.
He took advantage of me. He was one of two around this time last year.
I hope this feeling of dread and this feeling if being a slut doesn't last the whole winter... I cannot bare this feeling.
It is so dark.