Prelude

[if you didn't already know, i'm a roleplayer! attached is an old journal entry for my RP character, i had an idea to turn some of the entries into photos. these are IC entries, nothing based on my RL, but instead delving into the mind of a character. while fictional, please note it contains triggering content, so please do not read if mentions of abuse, assault, religion etc will upset you. thanks for looking!]

 

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Prelude

 

I write this so I can remember.

 

I’ve been chasing freedom my whole life.

 

It started when I was just a child. My mother called me a product of sin, I was placed in her body by another man and she did not want me. She could not rid of me, because that would be murder, and her hands too would no longer be clean. “There is no repentance for the murder of the unborn, Peninnah.”

 

In the bible, Peninnah was mentioned only briefly, one of two wives of Elkanah. Hannah was his second wife, and he loved her more. Peninnah was kept around for her sole purpose of being able to produce children, because Hannah was barren. But in turn of her lack of love, Peninnah often lashed out, from jealousy and spite.

 

I believe my mother picked this name with a purpose, and it has set the stage for my whole life. It’s just that I’ve set out to give Peninnah more than just a mention in the book. In scripture, it’s mentioned we cannot condone Peninnah’s actions, but we can understand them. This was not the case for me.

 

Since the day I was born, my mother hated me. I’ve never met my father, but I’ve been told that I have his eyes. That was what my mother’s husband told me the night he blinded mine, too. Less of him that she has to look at, he figured.

 

I was six years old. By this time, Ivah was born and she was favored. She was a wanted child, conceived out of love and passion, not the wretched product of a rape in a dark alleyway, a night in Detroit that no one wanted to talk about or remember, but had to every time they looked at me.

 

I was just a girl. I knew no better, and like Ivah I wanted to be loved and cared for. I tried my best to behave. We were not allowed the television, and I busied myself with books of all kinds. As long as I was reading, I was being good. My parents allowed me to read the bible primarily, and by the time I was eight, I had the entire book of Psalms memorized to the point that I could recite it verbatim. It was my favorite, and though I can’t remember it word-for-word to this day, I carry it with me often and have modeled most of my life and morals around how I interpreted it, though it’s changed over the years.

 

I also enjoyed reading books about flowers. Mother had a garden, and though it wasn’t something I’ve ever done hands on, I can tell you by memory how to prune a rose bush, or that poppy flowers bloom from June to October, and that the titan arum is the world's largest.

 

My mother also had poetry books, she enjoyed the classics like e.e cummings and Emily Dickinson (the soul has bandaged moments is my favorite). When I was about ten, I started writing poetry, but my vocabulary was too small, so I started reading the thesaurus, too. As long as I was reading, that meant I was causing no harm to my family, and they would leave me locked in my room, just how I wanted them to do.

 

But there were times that I wanted love. I wanted my mother to hug me and tell me that she loved me, and I would ask her to. At times, I could tell that she wanted to as well, but there must have been a voice in the back of her mind arguing with her. Her shoulders would shake, and sometimes she would squeeze me too tightly, like she was physically restraining herself from hurting me.

 

I remember staring into her eyes, they were seafoam green, but they always looked glassy when she looked back, sometimes tears would roll down her cheeks, and other times she was not strong enough, and she would strike me.

 

My eyes.. pale blue like my father’s. Ivah’s eyes were pale blue too, but when I pointed this out, mother said it was different.

 

But I’m jumping too far ahead, because I have never told anyone what has happened to my eye. I don’t think I will forget, no matter how bad my memories seem to get. I can remember it vividly, the man that was supposed to act as my father dumping gasoline in to it. He said I should be ugly on the outside, just like within.

 

I look at my baby now, and I wonder how someone could do such a thing. My limbs were so small, I couldn’t possibly understand. I wonder if he felt powerful as I kicked and screamed beneath him while he pinned me down, one hand over my mouth while he marked me. I remember the way it burned, and the way my sight of him blurred. The thing about being blind - it’s not a world of black, at least not for everyone. I was able to see for a while, just not good. I could see colors, and fragments of light, but as the years passed and the condition of my eye deteriorated, they had to remove it.

 

My birthday falls on Halloween. As a child, it was not to be celebrated, though Ivah was often given small parties. My date was different because my parents often spent it protesting, just like they did with so many other things. If I had to compare them to something extremist in modern society, I’d say the Westboro Baptists that I often see on the news or on social media now. They found atrocities in the simple enjoyments of life, but were most commonly found protesting women's health clinics, like Planned Parenthood.

 

There was one particular protest that changed the curve of my life forever, despite never being involved in them. One of the women went to get an abortion, she had made the decision for herself because of the mental illness she was suffering from. Her name was Joyce Day. She felt that she would not be a good mother, at least that was what the newspapers said, when they interviewed her later on. Because of my parents outspoken beliefs, after they yelled terrible things at her and held signs in her face, she had the procedure done with anguish.

 

But three weeks later, she was at our door, their identities were known, being outspoken in the church, and she simply used a phonebook. When my parents answered, she shot them both dead. The doctor said it was a period of psychosis, and she was sent to a facility. Ivah and I, in turn, after witnessing the death of our parents, were sent to foster care. I was twelve years old.

 

This was the first time I believed I experienced freedom, but it was only the beginning of another period of confinement. I’ll save that for another time.

Done