Andrew

I waited until it was raining to write about you.
This is one of the most difficult things to articulate.
And if the sky didn't weep,
how could I?
Why should I?
I never did, you know.
You caused enough tears for me.

I stood up at your funeral and mocked you.
In front of everybody you ever knew.
I wrapped it in simile, metaphor -
disguised my emotions.
My hatred.
So only those who knew you knew.
Your family approached me afterwards,
and told me my words were beautiful -
and they were!
Beautiful deceptions.

No more lies.
I find it hard to turn my mind to speak of you.
If I'm candid, it becomes easier -
so let's be candid.
You beat me.

I feel that bears repetition.
You beat me.
Don't be confused, dear reader -
I don't mean in a fair contest,
in a battle of wits, or a game.
(For if it was a game, I won)
But with fists.

Those cruel hands of yours.
According to the doctors you didn't know what it was you did.
Control was all that mattered, and control you had to have.
You held a child up against the wall by his throat.
You threw him down stairs.
You tore the flesh on his back,
and you called him every name under the sun.

I suppose I should thank you.
You were the first person to call me faggot.
And it was laughable.
Still is.

So yes, I cried.
I cowered and cried and fled.
I stood up to you only to be struck down.
Again, and again, and again.
You beat me.
For years.
Monster.

And then you lost control and attempted to kill yourself, didn't you?
Couldn't even get that right.
But you were weakened,
and I had a chance.

You couldn't push me around anymore, and so we pushed you out.
Beaten wife syndrome couldn't last in the face of your madness.
And we banded together, the beaten woman and the tortured child,
and you had to go.

And then you spent all of our money on whores,
drugs, a fancy hotel room.
And then you woke up and you hung yourself with your belt.
I try not to be vindictive -
but I often savour that image.

Several years later I tattooed my flesh.
An acknowledgement of what you did to me,
and what I had yet to do.
Trial by fire, I called it.
I hope that there's a fire for you, even now.

You deserve my pity, but you'll never get it.
I'm glad you're burning.

That child was stronger than you ever were.