Fear of Falling

Why couldn’t he just stay away? Why did he make me have to hurt him?
    “See what you make me do, Kamilla? I have to. I have to hurt you because I love you.”
    A gasp caught in my throat as my worst fear came to fruition. My mother was right. She was right all along. And that only solidified my decision.
    I covered my mangled face with my only free hand and turned my head away. “Get out.”
    “What?” I could hear the confusion that weighted that tiny, insignificant word.
    “I said get out!” I shouted louder than was necessary. But I needed to make him see how wrong this was. How wrong I was.
    As I had hoped, Dom, Angel, a police officer and a nurse came rushing in, all displaying varying levels of alarm. Blaine took one last wounded look at me before dropping his gaze to the floor. He was defeated. I had broken him down. I really was my father’s child.
    I didn’t face him as he walked away. The truth was ugly enough.

Fuck it.
    Fuck it all.
    Fuck feeling like this. Fuck trying to find a reason for this pain.
    Fuck fucking, sick-fuck fathers. Fuck them to the nth degree.
    Fuck the scars they created. Fuck the pieces of a person they left behind.
    Fuck the tiny glimpse of happiness only to have it snatched away. Fuck wanting someone so bad that you continuously put yourself out there, knowing that you’ll be demolished in the blink of a gorgeous, green eye.
    Fuck it all.
    Fuck me. Fuck her. Fuck this.
    Fuck it.

The body was a miraculous thing.
    You could tear it apart, rip it to shreds, and somehow, it healed. Collagen formed scar tissue that sealed the gashes. Bones could be reset, and cartilage could regrow. Pain subsided until you didn’t feel the deep ache every time you breathed. Even the brain could heal, blocking out the horrifying details that woke you up at night, covered in sweat and crying. It, too, could be soothed and coaxed into healing through time and intense therapy.
    But the heart? That organ never fully healed itself. It could never be right once it had been damaged. But no matter how broken it was, no matter how badly it hurt every time a memory slipped through the cracks and gripped you, it just kept on beating. You kept on moving, kept on living. Even when you wanted to curl into the fetal position and die, it wouldn’t let you. Those jagged fragments pulled themselves together and continued to pump blood through your body.
    Every heartbeat killed you, but you were alive. Even if you didn’t want to be.

    I placed the jar of vibrant stars back on my windowsill and smiled. It was a big deal for me. To smile again. To find a reason to want to smile again. It had taken months to get here. To find just a tiny bit of peace from the hell that was my life. Not anymore. I wouldn’t live like that. I wouldn’t let him take that away from me.
    I didn’t do it alone, although sometimes it felt like I had been banished to the tiny island of Me. I became a recluse. I didn’t talk. I didn’t eat. Hell, sometimes it felt like I didn’t breathe. I existed.
    For weeks, I stared at the stars on my windowsill, silently cursing them, hating them, but still needing them. Each one served as an individual reminder. They reminded me why I still breathed. Why I still kept moving forward no matter how badly I wanted to give up. They reminded me of the love I had, the love I shattered, and the love that kept me tethered to this life.
    One day I wouldn’t need those stars. I wouldn’t need the crutch of my fears to keep me from leading a full, healthy life. I’d be able to kiss them goodbye and never look back. And I’d finally be free.
    The pieces of my life were finally coming back together. My father was charged and convicted of attempted rape, attempted murder, and trespassing. That, along with the slew of warrants out for his arrest, resulted in him being sent to prison for no less than 20 years without the chance of parole. That gave me a small slice of peace, but it didn’t make me happy. Who could really be happy about having to relive your own personal hell in front of a room full of strangers? Yeah. That earned #254.
    Sometimes it took tragedy to make you see the things that were staring you right in the face and breathing down your neck. I knew I had problems, but I kept them tucked away, smothered with denial. After many nights spent on my bedroom floor, shaking, rocking, and crumbling right before their eyes, Dom and Angel finally persuaded me to get help. I went back to seeing Dr.