Lashed.

I still have flashbacks to the day I woke up, in my stepmother’s house, to the accusations of theft from the pantry. I was wasting away at the time, a dangerous ninety something pounds. My stepsiblings were getting plumper and plumper. I was whipped with a belt in the laundry room while forced to hold the hanging bar, dissociation keeping me from giving that woman the satisfaction of a vivid pain reaction.

Every time I am around her, I remember this day.

I haven’t trusted her completely since that day.

Even on the days when we partake, a faint part of my mind remembers it. It’s engraved in my mind. When I’m around her, my guard just stays up.

It’s in the front of my mind because the anniversary of the beating is coming—

My birthday.

That’s right. I was lashed like a thief on my birthday.

The thoughts are…intrusive. I’m trying to get rid of them. It’s not working.

I can feel the impact points on my back, still.