Cigarette smoke fills my nose and I see my father slam my mother by her neck onto the cracked polyurethane coated, wood kitchen table by her neck. This is the earliest memory I have; this is what keeps me up at night with cold sweats and wishful thinking. This memory is burned into my brain and is never forgotten. This is the way of the world and the way things will always remain. Pain, misery, longing, regret, festering in my mind, eating away all things that are good in my life. This is the earliest memory I have. This is the memory I pull out when I feel nostalgic for the past. This is my life.

I have always been invisible. Since the day I was born I never caused trouble, I never cried too much, or made much fuss. I was a good child. I always did what was right, or what I was told to do. Teachers had trouble remembering my name because I never had much to say, besides “here” during roll call. It was always easier to remain in the shadows, like a phantom, or a ghost. If no one noticed me it would make things easier, less cumbersome, give me free time to pursue my own interests.

Though, through the years I found I didn’t have any interest. No ambition, no drive, no will to go further than anyone else. My brother did though. My brother was always the squeaky wheel that got greased. The person with personality. The one everyone remembered. I wished so much to be like him. I wished that one day I could talk like him, or make friends like him, or get my parent’s attention; whether bad or good. I just wanted to be noticed. I wanted for someone to see me, hear me, feel my soul. I wanted what he had. I wanted to be screamed at. I wanted my father to hit me, or even acknowledge I existed. But I was invisible, I didn’t exist.

I was the cold spot of emptiness that surrounded everyone and everything. I was a vapid thought, a second glance, a spot on the wall. I didn’t rail against the system; I never gave my parents a hard time. I barely made a ripple in the pond of life. I am the watcher, the all-seeing eye, the fly on the wall. I am me, blonde hair, blue-eyed, and full of hate for humanity.

My life was never easy. I never had love without consequence. And yet I feel like I turned out ok. I tell my tale not for pity, or empathy, but for redemption. I feel in my gut the guilt of every son or daughter who has ever turned their back on family, who has thrived for better in the face of adversity, who had wished for something better than they had before. I want this to be a lesson for my children. A warning, a lifeline, a way to know me, in a way, to know my thoughts that I could never express with spoken words, only in letters on a page.

I refuse to remain silent any longer, I refuse to remain invisible. I will be heard and I will be noticed.

My Fractured Musings writes flash fiction and autobiography stories for people who enjoy the dark side of humanity. You can connect on Twitter @myfracturedmuse or visit