You got proof to show they broke your bones and there will be sympathizers. But, didn't they break something worse that no one sees? What happens when they are cynically clever and leave you no scars to show but the ones deep within.... no bruises, just a whimpering black and blue spirit...what then?
I once knew a bold spirit. It was one of those determined ones that you'd really need skill and talent to break, for every time it heard something that shook it up, it just got more determined. I used to talk to it....
"Why are you so stubborn? What's the plan?"
"They yell at me, they beat me, they try to control me, shape me according to their fancies. But I am me, not clay they need to mould and bake in an oven to display their superior pottery skills....The plan? To show them they are wrong! Some day tell it to their face."
That little child's voice and those heavy words; I couldn't help but side with it. I watched it grow, change and evolve. From that vengeful little one that collected bad memory after bad memory and seared it onto itself, I watched it grow into one that which longed to be free. In its cage, it found some freedom in colours. The mixing of colours, the texture, the slow blending, the new colours; it all gave that vengeful spirit some solace and escape from its cage.
They tried to taint the colours too - "This is all well and pretty, but is this all you will do? Don't you have any work?" Another time, they tore its beautiful blends. It was a teaching endeavor they said. Teaching? They 'taught' a lot. A lot more than I can bear to repeat here. I will refrain from doing so because this story is about that spirit and not them.
I've seen it rage red like the colour it loves so much. I've heard it cry out into hollow spaces of the mind until there was no space left to hold its cries. I've felt it claw into my skin to contain it all and hold on. And many times I've asked it,
"Why hold on even?"
"Because this isn't forever. To show them they are wrong! To show me I am strong!"
"What if you let go? It'll be over. Isn't that stronger during some rare times?"
"....Well, maybe I'm not that strong yet. So I'll keep trying in the way I am strong."
Over years I've seen it sear more and more words, memories, gestures onto itself, until there was no space. It had filled up all the empty spaces within with its cries. The tears of years went stale and rotted. So much that it oozed out like puss at the slightest prod. The weight dragged it down.
"What are you going to do about the latest jibes? Come on! Wake up!! What about your plan?"
It wouldn't talk to me. It would just look through my eyes outward and shrivel into a ball. It knew every scar too well. It knew the lack of space for more. Its plans turned into plees in silent whimpers. Without it's former strength, 'They' became stronger. They sucked on it more.
But, even that broken, mangled, bleeding state, if you listened carefully - not the kind of listening you do with ears, but one with a heart - you will hear in those silent whimpers: "Please get me out of here. All I want is a chance to heal"
Now it's my turn to help it cause without it I'm helpless. And that's the tragic irony.
*The author has chosen to remain anonymous. You can find more of their works here.