Author: Hari Navarro
My daughter was raped as a baby. Does the fact that she was nine and not a baby make me a liar, does it take any of the sting from an opening sentence surely designed to shock and pull you into the tawdry undertow that sweeps through these words?
But you see I’ve always scorned those you refer to their children as babies when they are not, to label them such is to deny them growth. It belittles the struggles overcome as they claw to a crawl and stagger from cradle to ash.
But she was my baby.
An infant led into a filthy warm cellar by those she trusted and loved. Sibling neighbors, who stroked her long hair and locked the door shut as they pushed her down to the floor. She had been bad they said, perhaps even evil as they warned of the wrath that was visited upon all those who spoke of the punishment they dealt.
So that’s why we took her to the clinic, that place where gastropods had run up behind cognitive neuroscience and shoulder barged it into the future. We sold all that we owned to finance this wonder of science; this harnessing of the engram, epigenetic modification beneath the snap-crack of a ribonucleic whip.
We paid for the ability to peel away memories, to hack out those things that haunt her, those things that compact her teenage mind and stuff it into the dark. The pit where she cuts and she spits at the mirror. Where the wallpaper it peels and lays the truth bare as she scratches away at her skin.
It’s been six weeks since the procedure. The day they nudged aside her synapses and plucked instead from the shriveled and blackened neurons that stored each wretched second of that day in the cellar. And then, it wiped it clean from her mind.
Listen as she sobs alone in her room. Though now she has no idea why. It’s her spirit, the essence of what it is that makes her who she is, that now mocks inside her head.
Her mind cant play for her the images but the blood in her veins, the integumentary system that again feels the dig of her nails and the razors slit edge, it remembers.
It’s her strength, this overriding connection of body and mind, it is this she can mine to rebuild the childish things that she lost.
If I could I would put back that pitch darkness we took. It’s part of her. I’ve stolen from her the key. I’m so sorry, for how in the world can you now own that which you no longer have?
And the gastropods shall inherit the earth 😉
Sorry, posted in the wrong spot that was a reply to your last message Simon 🙂
Heartbreaking. In so many ways.
Thank you very much 82daisy for your continued support and priceless advice.
Always. Thank you for inspiring me & challenging me & touching my heart with every piece you write.
Intriguing title, fresh use of language, and a horrible topic handled with tenderness. Very nice.
Yes, yes and yes. And it’s made all the more powerful by the frugality of words 🙂
Mina, I really admire your writing style and appreciate your comments. Frugality, in as far as the words I choose, is something I have been working on. Thank you.
Mina, do you have a website where I can read more of your work? My contact details are in my profile.
David, I was really worried about this one and almost didn’t push the submit button. It is a subject I wanted to approach with great care and I was scared the intention behind my words would be misconstrued. Your comments mean a lot. Thank you.
Touches upon a tricky subject .. memories are what make up a large part of how we are. I am sure there could be good outcomes, but … not an easy choice.
Simon, I thought of this story after reading an article in Scientific American – ‘Memory Transferred between Snails, Challenging Standard Theory of How the Brain Remembers’. You are right the future outcomes and implications of this kind of treatment are far from easy to fathom.
There was an episode of Boston Legal where an underage girl was going to take a drug that could kill the memories of the past 24 (or 48?) hours and the parents were divided over if she should. Many of the arguments you’d think of were broached, except for gastropods .. 😉