“Magnum, everyone can heal from the wounds of their past.” Brenda’s eyes widen, both of her hands are placed on top of the counter.

               “Really? And what about you?” I snap. I’ve heard this same statement from a therapist, after several thousands of dollars.

               She points to herself. “Me?”

               “Yes, you. “

               “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She accuses.

               “Fine. You want to play it that way while pumping me for information? You want me to get in touch with the feelings of my past? How about you do the same. You should be honest to yourself. At least I am. “ I rise with my plate in my hand, no longer having the appetite for food or this conversation. I scrape what was the remainder of what should’ve been a nice breakfast into the garbage.

               My back is to her, and I wait for something to be thrown at my head. It wouldn’t be the first or the last. But it would be the first time I would care. No inanimate objects are thrown my way, so I turn to cold eyes that used to be warm.

               “Don’t you take things out on me Magnum. I understand if you don’t want to talk about your past but don’t you take your shit out on me.”

               This should be where I say fuck it and leave. But the problem is, I’m afraid to walk out the fucking door because I’ll lose her and that is not an option.

               “I’m-“

               She holds her hand out, shaking her head. “It’s you who aren’t honest. You’re busy trying to play the tough guy that you refuse to slow down and acknowledge that you were hurt by your father.”

               Oh, this shit again. “Acknowledge? I’ll show you acknowledge.” I storm over to her, ready to bare all of my scars to her, my wounds, they aren’t healed, they NEVER FUCKING HEAL. I stand in front of her, she pushes away from the counter with a fight or flight look in her eyes. I’ve known that look, I’ve worn it a few times when my father was kicking the shit out of me.

               I bend my head and grab her wrist. “Want to touch it?”

               “Wh-what?”

               “Come on Mooi,” I call her the Dutch word for beautiful, something that I’ve longed to call her since the moment I set eyes on her. But I’ve always wanted it to be used during intimate moments between us, like the one upstairs. Not now, with the memory of Sir dirtying it. But what else would I call the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on? “Touch it, you know you want to.” I look at her for a pregnant moment, while she contemplates this decision. Maybe, I should be the one to take longer in this decision, because once she touches it, there is no turning back. She nods her head and reaches out a trembling hand and touches my head. Her fingers trace along the lines of my tribal art, and she does a loud audible gasp, snatching her hand back and touching her lips.

               I lean my hands on either side of her, “You wanted to know the story behind the art, didn’t you? Those indentations are a result of a metal belt buckle repeatedly slammed into my skull.”

               “Oh, my God.” Tears fall down her precious cheeks. I want to wipe them away, but I have to finish this.

               I remember when I was a kid and when Sir was away, my mother would read me bedtime stories. I used to get caught up in the world of the stories she told, it wasn’t till later when I realized that the stories depended on the storyteller. If the storyteller expresses emotions in every scene, the listener will react. So, I strip away the emotions and tell my story as if I was reading the Wall Street Journal. “I forgot to put away my baseball mitt. Left it outside in the rain. Sir, decided to get creative with this beating to help me to remember next time. He came home from work and found the glove laying in the grass in our yard. He picked it up and went on inside. Mom and I greeted him in the living room as we were instructed to always do.” I hold up one finger as if I was instructing a class in front of me. “Notice I said instructed cause that is what he does. Instruct.” I grit my teeth together as I recall the memory.

               “He kissed mom and patted me on top of my head, handing me my baseball glove and said you left this outside sport.” He smiled as if all of this were our sense of normal. But the three of us, KNEW, it was those unspoken words, but why speak when you can use fists. It became that thing we hid from outsiders. It was like we were members of a club with only us three, hiding our dirty little secret. “I knew what was coming. I just didn’t know when.” I can’t face her for the rest. I turn facing the wall, and stare at her calendar of lighthouses, wishing I could mentally transport myself there on the coasts of Maine, rather than here, telling this story. “We finished dinner and watched t.v. as a family. Mom tucked me into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Because I knew.” I knew. I take in a deep breath.

               “It wasn’t until three in the morning when I finally drifted off to sleep that he entered my room. His belt wrapped around his fists with the buckle at his knuckles. I woke to punches being thrown at my head. Couldn’t tell you how many because I blacked out. When I came to a few days later I was in my room, my mother caring for me. You see they couldn’t take me to the hospital for fear of the police getting involved.” I finally turn back to face her, and her hands are covering her face as she sobs silently.

               “You know what excuse they gave my school for me being out for two weeks, chickenpox. If the school actually checked their records, they would’ve seen that I apparently had chickenpox twelve times. So that is the story behind the tat, it’s to cover the scars.” Even though she isn’t looking at me, I point to each of my tats. “Each one of them is covering a scar, a constant reminder courtesy of Sir.”

               We stay like this for what seems like forever or one hundred breaths. That’s what it took for Brenda to be able to talk. “Magnum, I’m so sorry.” She whispers.

               “I’ve long ago acknowledged my past. I give it the respect it deserves, NONE. When I chose not to talk or think about it, it’s not that I’m trying to be a tough guy. It’s because I know that I’m not.”

               “Magnum I didn’t mean …”

               “You meant what you said.” I cup her chin in my hand, her beautiful brown eyes looks into mine. “Mooi, you and I, will never lie to each other.” She tries to turn her head, but I stop her because that would be a lie. “No more lies.”

               “But I’m –“

               “But you are about to lie to me and say that you aren’t hiding from something from your past. I’ve met a lot of women, Mooi. Most of which I’ve fucked, they came in all shapes, sizes or whatever. The only time I ever heard a woman say that she was just looking for a good time no strings attach is the tramp.” I step back and look at her and shake my head and then take her left hand and kiss her ring finger. “Mooi, you are wifey material, not a tramp. Or a woman says that because she’s scared of a relationship. I’m not a rocket scientist, but someone sent you dead roses. Me I prefer to send a lady the live variety.”

               Her bottom lip trembles and as she wipes a tear from her face.

               “You’re with me, but then you’re not. You pry but don’t give. Someone is after you, I don’t know who it is but what I do know is I’m here now. You’re not doing this shit alone.”

               She lowers her eyes and places her hands on her lap. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

               I kiss the top of her head. “Mooi, I’m here when you’re ready.” I begin to clean up the kitchen as she sits in silence. When I finish I turn and look at her. “Get ready, We’re going for a ride.”