Chapter 15 - The Unseen Scars
Six months had passed since the heavy,
wooden doors of the federal prison had slammed shut on the men who had tried to destroy me.
Life had settled into a quiet,
beautiful,
and wonderfully exhausting routine in the new,
sprawling suburban house my father had purchased for us.
The house was filled with bright,
warm colors,
the scent of baking bread,
and the constant,
joyous sound of little Leo babbling happily from his colorful,
padded playpen in the living room.
I was sitting on the soft,
plush sofa,
folding a massive pile of tiny,
sweet-smelling baby clothes,
feeling a profound,
deep sense of peace that I had worked so incredibly,
painfully hard to achieve.
Therapy,
twice a week with a kind,
patient woman who specialized in severe domestic trauma,
had slowly,
meticulously helped me rebuild my shattered,
broken sense of self-worth.
I was no longer the frightened,
cowering girl who counted the blows of a leather belt,
I was a fiercely protective,
independent mother who had faced the darkest evil and completely,
absolutely survived.
But healing,
as my therapist constantly,
gently reminded me,
was never a perfect,
straight,
unbroken line;
it was a messy,
complex journey filled with unexpected,
sudden triggers.
I stood up to put away a stack of folded,
blue onesies,
walking toward the hallway closet,
my mind completely,
happily focused on what I was going to cook for dinner.
As I opened the closet door,
my hand brushed against a dark,
heavy leather belt that my father had inadvertently,
carelessly hung over the brass hook.
The cold,
stiff texture of the leather against my skin sent a massive,
violent electrical shock straight up my arm,
bypassing my logical,
healed brain and striking directly into my primitive,
terrified survival instincts.
I gasped,
stumbling backward,
dropping the soft baby clothes onto the hardwood floor,
my heart instantly,
frantically hammering a panicked rhythm against my ribs.
The bright,
sunny hallway faded away,
replaced instantly by the dark,
cold marble floor of the bathroom where I had hidden so many times,
the phantom,
agonizing sting of the belt burning across my back.
My breathing became shallow,
rapid,
and desperate,
the walls of the house seemingly closing in around me,
suffocating me in a wave of pure,
unadulterated panic.
"Beate?"
my father's voice called out from the kitchen,
instantly detecting the sharp,
terrified change in the atmosphere of the quiet house.
He rushed into the hallway,
a dish towel still thrown casually over his broad shoulder,
his sharp,
military eyes immediately scanning the area for any physical,
immediate threat.
He saw me leaning heavily against the wall,
my hands trembling violently,
my eyes locked in absolute,
frozen terror on the innocent,
ordinary leather belt hanging in the closet.
He understood instantly,
his expression softening from a fierce protector to a gentle,
infinitely patient father.
He did not rush toward me,
knowing that sudden,
fast movements could exacerbate the intense,
overwhelming flashback.
Instead,
he stepped slowly,
calmly in front of the open closet door,
using his massive,
broad body to completely block the triggering object from my line of sight.
"You are safe,
Beate,"
he said,
his voice a low,
steady,
incredibly grounding rumble that cut through the chaotic,
screaming noise in my panicked mind.
"You are in our home,
Leo is safe in the living room,
and the monster is locked in a cage where he can never,
ever reach you."
He held out his large,
warm hands,
keeping them open and visible,
waiting patiently for me to anchor myself back to the present,
safe reality.
I took a deep,
shuddering breath,
closing my eyes tightly,
forcing the dark,
terrifying memories back into the small,
locked box in the corner of my mind.
When I opened my eyes,
I saw the profound,
unconditional love shining in my father's face,
and I stepped forward,
falling into his strong,
safe embrace,
letting out a long,
exhausted sigh of absolute relief.
"I'm sorry,
Papa,"
I whispered against his chest,
feeling a wave of frustration at my own,
lingering vulnerability.
"Never apologize for your scars,
my brave girl,"
he murmured gently,
kissing the top of my head and rubbing my back with soothing,
rhythmic motions.
"They are proof that you fought a terrible,
brutal war,
and they are absolute,
undeniable proof that you won."
I pulled back,
wiping a stray,
lonely tear from my cheek,
and smiled at the incredible,
honorable man who had literally,
figuratively saved my life.
From the living room,
Leo let out a happy,
loud squeal,
banging a plastic block against the side of his playpen,
demanding his mother's attention.
I turned toward the sound,
the panic completely,
entirely gone,
replaced by the fierce,
May you like
unbreakable love of a mother,
ready to face whatever the bright,
