by Amy Ford
Six, seven, eight, nine.
I count how many steps I walked down last time. I tried to align my feet in the same position as last week. Always heading down the stairs. He always walked up to meet me. My feet needed to be in the same position so the rest of my body could follow.
Left hand on the rail.
Every week this needs to be perfect. I need this to be perfect. I need to be perfect.
One – breathe in. Two – breathe out.
“One. Two. One. Two.” I whisper to myself. My breathing has to be controlled.
I was once controlled.
Stop. I can’t think about this now. But I know once I start, the flashbacks can’t be stopped. It’s been ten years. The doctor said I would no longer have them. Ten years it took me to learn to be perfect – how to have control. Ten years since I learned what happens when there is no control.
My mama always told me to control myself. “My little chiacchiere,” she used to call me. I was her favorite. “My little chiacchiere, control yourself before you cause something you can’t control,” she would scold me, coming in from checking the mail.
Foot a smidge to the left, I remember.
“You got another gift box. Who is this admirer of yours?,” she teased me, but I recognized the look of worry on her face. At the time, I mistook her worry as her being anxious about me leaving the house and her being left alone.
Now I know better.
Head should be tilted slightly to the left.
“Non lo so mama.” And I did not know. She did not believe me but I would not lie to my mother. Not then.
Not too much to the left.
I would not believe me either. The letters started too personal for it to be from someone random. “Mio tesoro, mio passerotto” they would start, all terms of endearment. One ended “Mi manchi.” But how could they miss me? I thought. You need to know someone before you can miss them. I do not know them, they do not know me.
Of course, now I know better. They knew me better than I thought they did.
Fingers spread out more. Less…? More.
The boxes were my favorite part. Painted with my favorite colours and images. My imaginings I would murmur to myself on my way home. When I was alone. When I thought I was alone. I was innocent. I held on to the naivety of my dreams; my dreams of this admirer being a kind stranger who simply wanted to bring me this happiness in life.
Thumbs facing in.
At this point, my mom would call me back out from my daydreams. She would air out the dresses: she always loved the dresses. Mia sorella loved them too. She was so young at the time. “Sister, sister!” she would call out to me. They would pull the dress out by the dozens, all my favorite colours.
Look left.
My sister always tried to put them on. But my admirer knew my size. The dresses were perfectly contoured to my lithe, 16-year-old body. They were fit for a princess from a fantasy and I had always wanted to be the Belle of the ball. My experience with the beast, however, would not be as magical or as kind.
A mirror. There is one hair out of place;, wild.
Some of these dresses were womanly and that is why mama referred to my gift-giver as an admirer. Though the letters labeled me a woman, my mother was quick to remind me, “Mia chiacchiere, my baby”. She used to call me her wild child and often remarked that that was why I was her favorite. He told me he liked wild things too.
I fixed my hair.
Not once did my mother tell me to be wary, rather she kept her worries to herself. She let me wander alone and walk to scuola unaccompanied. But I was about to learn a lesson I did not need schooling for.
Slow breaths; prepare yourself.
My mama let me walk to school early one day. It was dark and there was no one around. The walk to my school was a lengthy one and I was a bit frightened but collected myself because this was a path I was familiar with.
I walked.
Calm. Face forward.
The excitement of being alone got to my head. I started walking faster. I imagined there were footsteps behind me and someone chasing me and I started to walk faster.
Resist urge to play with fingers.
All of a sudden the footsteps were not imaginary. I heard them clearly. There was someone in the woods and they were chasing me. They were behind me.
Are those footsteps?
The pathway did not provide many places to hide, so it was run or be caught. I ran. But I was just 16 and I had never had to run out of fear a day in my life. I tripped.
He was behind me.
Yes, those are footsteps. I can tell.
He caught up to me. I knew he would. I spared my mind and my doctors the details. My sister was the one who found me. I knew she would not forget the lesson I had learned the hard way. My family was torn. They were stuck between sending me away and never letting me out of their sight. Eventually I made the decision to leave. It was hard but I had to get over my fear of men. To this day I still cannot let any man behind me.
It must be about time now.
It took a long time for me to trust again. It has been ten years and to even talk to another guy takes much persuasion from my friends.
I am… (I permit a small sigh of youthful joy) excited.
But then I met him. And he was perfect. He respected my boundaries. I told him he would just have to follow my rules. And he understood. And I thought he understood.
The footsteps are closer but … not coming from where I expected. The excitement had left leaving me anxious. My breathing started to become faster. I heard the footsteps behind me. They had started off slow but increased pace. My breath was going too fast. My heart was pumping. It couldn’t be. I tried to imagine it was someone else; a maid, the gardener, not someone coming to meet me. All of a sudden, I heard the footsteps stop at the top of the stairs. There was someone there and they were staring at me. I turned around in a panic and looked up.
It was him.
And he was behind me.
