When we were little, me and Maite used to sleep in the same room. In the evening, when we were send to bed, very often we wouldn't be tyred at all yet. So we would laugh together and jump on our beds. This was particularly annoying to my father, who would come up and scream at us - to shut up or something. Thisw as really devastating to me, because I did not understand what we did wrong. For some reason, we'd also like to change beds. We'd be put to sleep in our seprerate beds, but then we stayed up for a while, and eventually change beds. This was so much fun, to go into the other one's bed, to feel the presence, the warmth of another body inside this other bed, and fall asleep in it.
I must watch out not to want to 'try too hard to remember', because then I go into assumptions and interpretations. I just try to pick on what I still can experience - clear cut - and move on from there, to see what else I can discover. So much is temporarely lost into supression and locked away compartiments of myself. That's also the reason why my pieces, untill now - haven't been very long. It exists in fragments, spread around without any apparent meaning or order. Alos I've noticed how memories are never about what they seem. When I delve into them, sooner or later they seem to be connected to some greater door, like a key of wich I had forgotten the purpose.
When I was standing inside my room I could very often hear my father yell downstairs. The anxiety would become so intense, that I'd put an ear against the floor - trying to hear what is being said. And this I had done many times, holding my head aginst the floor, listening to my fathers voice, speaking with much agitation and nervousness - my nose would pick up the smell of the wouden floor and the dust that lay on it - it has a very particular smell. My fathers voice would seem to resonate into the floor - I always tried to discern if he was speaking my name. Then I'd hear a sound and think: "Was that my name? Did that sound like my name?" But I never could make anything of his words. I would hope and hope that he did not mention my name, that he was not angry at me - and I would be scared to go downstairs for a long while. In fact I don't remember my father being mad, except at us. So if he got mad, surely it had to have something to do with me or Maite.
Once me and my sister were sitting infront of a soup-plate. Now, at the table we'd always have the most terrible experiences, because we vey often refused to eat what was being served - we simply did not like the food. So, this particular time, with the soup infront of us, my father was getting really mad. We were the only ones at the table - my mum was standing somewhere and my father was walking on and off behind our backs. They were waiting for us to finnish our plates, so that they finnaly could get on to something else. But me and my sister, we said: "No."
To make ourselves better understood, we'd put on a face that signified disgust - we didn't hide anything, and this is what made my father snap.
Even with our fathers temper hanging above our heads, like a storm that was coming and I knew it was coming because this is what happened every time. I was really scared of my father getting mad at me, but I found the soup so repulsive that I prefered taking my chances. But then, suddenly, in one moment, I felt his large and massive hand against the back of my head and he smashed my face in the plate of soup. The same was happening to my sister, who sat next to me, and while he held our faces in the soup he screamed one sentence. He screamed and pushed - I felt very humiliated. It was not very long, but I feared it would never end. I was turned face towards my sister and I could see her face being pushed inside her plate aswell. My mother, as usual - did nothing. I was so surprised he had gone this far. I never expected this. Now I really started to figure out that my father was actually a pretty violent person - it reminded me of the violence in families I had seen in movies. I never would have thought I'd one day look at my situation from that perspective. It was so unreal - I felt panic inside. Was it possible my father did not love me? There was no other explanation. He clearly had revealed himself for all to remember. He actually hated us.