She always walked with her head down. The bill of her fedora shadowed her face. She dared not make eye contact, nor allow her tears to expose her weakness.
Many of years, she’s worked on this armor. Her pain holds her heart hostage. It prevents opened doors. When the locks are sealed, there’s no way in… or out.
Her family has spent the best part of these past ten years hovering over her. They have perfected relentless psychoanalyses! She cringes at the hint of another inquisitive “How are you doing?”.
She didn’t want to think about what happened. She refused to allow the ugly monster of shame to control her life. The past is the past; and, that’s where she plans it to stay.
That’s a shattered broken soul, abandoned by a man who never really felt, understood, or knew love.
His childhood trauma manifested a rolling ball of anger. As a child, he didn’t understand what was happening; or, if he could do a thing to stop it.
His father beat his mother. When his father wasn’t doing that, he was sitting down at the local bar. There were only a handful of instances when his father wasn’t drunk.
His father was a poor mess, unforgivable and self distructive. Unfortunately, this generational curse only continued.
…. And she no longer could see her own beauty. She no longer had a sense of freedom.