Pomme Terre

When Cliff paused his narrative here, I could see that he was broken.

"Cliff, I'm sorry this upsets you... you could..." I didn't even know what to say. I placed a palm on his balled up fist, hopefully to remind him that we are breathing a present air, not the past.

"No... if you want to know someone better, he gotta tell his story. And every telling is different, as it is now....

So, yea... not only did the woman physically abused me, she abused me sexually too. I did not fully understand how does a mother show love, how does a family function, what is acceptable, what isn't. I was confused, I felt violated. I became withdrawn. If there was one thing I learnt from my mother, is that I never want to be like her. I loathed her and everything she did. I disown her.

Unable to really speak to anyone about this, I started to express myself on paper. My only tool was a black pen and any piece of paper. I draw my thoughts vividly, the abuses, guns and wounds, broken and bleeding vases, bottles, death, drunk naked woman, dark stuff... everything with just black ink.

One day, my school teacher found my stack of drawings and she was horrified. I guess my artwork may suggest that I was a potential psychopath capable of doing something like random shooting at school. She hauled my ass to the counsellor, they called him Brother Nat.