The Start

Alone. Always. I could hear the silence around me screaming so loud I thought I'd go insane. Maybe I already was insane and I just hadn't figured it out yet. I'm not sure. Do insane people actually know that they're insane? I doubt it. I'm pretty sure that's why they call it "insanity". Sighing heavily, I close my dark brown eyes and use my thumb to turn up the volume of my little purple iPod. Soft music chases away the harsh sound of my desolation. I'm on a plane, there are so many people around me, so close, but I'm still alone. I'm 26 years old, but I feel like I'm about 96. I'm about five-foot-six with long brown hair and pale olive skin. I'm thin, "too thin" as my aunt said before I left her and that world. Another sigh as I shake my head, as if to erase the thoughts of what I left, like my head is an etch-e-sketch. How silly of me, right?
"Miss?" a soft voice calls distantly. Reluctantly, I open my dark eyes. The flight attendant, in her little pants suit with blonde hair up in a bun, smiles warmly at me. I wonder how many people she's smiled at like that, never really meaning the friendlieness behind the action. "Miss, can I get you anything?"
I frown at her and tilt my head slightly against the back of my sardine-like chair. Can she get me anything? Can she get me the last seven years of my life back? Can she take away all the shadows that cloud my mind? I don't think so. I don't think anyone can do that. Without a word, I shake my head slowly and turn away from her. I know, I'm being rude, but I just really don't care. She's dealt with worse, I'm sure. Some bitchy little American won't mean much to her.
My smokey eyes gaze out of the airplane's window. I'm peering just over the wing of the large jet, whispy clouds are floating over and under it as it cuts through them brutally. I know that just below those clouds will be the Atlantic Ocean, rolling in it's torrent dance with the moon and earth, filled with life and energy. The ocean is never alone. It has all of those creatures living in it, moving in it, caressing and being caressed by it. The ocean is lucky.
Eyes close and I gasp silently, another soft scream in that boisterus quiet. Suddenly, I'm not sat on a plane anymore. It was anything but still then. He was there, and he was angry. I don't remember why he was so upset, but I could see the rage in his green eyes. His thick brow was drawn together in a tight frown as he screamed at me. His big hands came at me and then there was the pain. When the pain hit, I'd no longer be there. I was floating up and looking down at myself while he kicked and hit me. He screamed awful things at me, calling me various different names as he made me bleed. But never my name. He never used my name when he'd hurt me. He'd use that for later, when he tried to sooth me.
"Oh, Sam," he'd whisper to me as I sobbed silently and tried to clean the blood off my face. "Why do you make me do these things to you, Sam? You know I love you."
The burning in my chest brings me back to the present. I've stopped breathing, eyes tightly shut against the memory. I can feel my little body shivering uncontrolably, hot tears stinging my eyes and quivering gasps for hair to fill my hungry lungs. It's always like that. My heart pounds in my chest and the back of my neck and ears burn with a fire of their own. I feel dizzy and sick to my stomach, a stomach that still aches with the phantom of memory as it gently caresses me goodbye. I can feel eyes on me as other passengers catch wind of my panic and fear. I'm sure most of them just think I've had a bad dream. They don't realize that the dream I'm waking up from took nearly seven years to finish.