From a young age, I have been taught that punishment comes from love. The love of which you can’t see nor hear; only feel. The kind that you know you should adore, but resent in such a way that you should never mutter to a single soul. That love is strong. That love is merciful. That love is true. That love must be shared.
I have endured many acts of love throughout the course of my lifetime: some of which stand out, as a thorn amongst beautiful roses; as a leaf atop a freshly kept yard; as a snowflake against a warm summer breeze. I am sure you wish not remember them, but love shan’t be kept; oh no. Love must be shared.
The day love arose was the day I took a step - a leap of faith in a world of bewilderment. My small, supple feet gliding above harsh, coarse pavement. Though the beauty of life shone along side me, the darkness crept; lurking; waiting. Awaiting the end of a feeble attempt of light, darkness crashing down upon a dimly lit room. Love stings; love scars; love wounds. Though this was just the beginning of the cruel reality; love must be shared.
Love plays in mysterious ways. Whether it be food served worse than a prison, or clothes never mended, there was always a reminder that I was loved. “Where were you?” A question sent from lucifer himself. “Where. Were. You.” Though my feet wished to move, my body remained. A pathetic attempt at communication escaped my mouth - one you would wish could drown in an ocean of silence. “You are thirty minutes late past curfew. Where. The fuck. Were you.” Again a pathetic sound escaped my mouth; a sound worthy of love. My body prepared for an embrace: a cold, sharp embrace. This kind of love left reminders of affection: slashes, bruises, bumps - a small price to pay to know you are adored. After all, love must be shared.
To return my thanks for the love I received, I would work. I would clean, cook, light cigarettes, replenish alcohol; these things would reward. Some days, love was abundant. These days, men would enter my bedroom: bleak, cold, uncomfortable. These men would show me love in all sorts of ways; touching me here and there, emotions ebbing and flowing throughout a still room - painting the white walls red. Any attempt of refusing love only made it stronger; it set the fire ablaze. These men loved me, their love must be shared.
I could continue to write about all of the love that you have showed to me mother, but I will have grown tired of waiting. As you are coming to the end of this letter, I shall ask of you one things. Did you lock your door? Did you close your windows? Did you check in your closet for a monster? Perhaps you are catching on; is your mind racing? Are you thinking as to whether you locked your gun case? Or perhaps your knife drawer? Perhaps both? I hope to hear your breath trembling as you read your final letter, as you breathe your final breath. From a young age, I have been taught that punishment comes from love. And now, mother, my love must be shared.