Monsters and Time Travel

Her father is medicated. He was a monster her whole life, violent and abusive, the stuff of nightmares. Now, thanks to the pharmaceuticals, he’s like a charming old hound dog. She still bristles at him. Her body remembers.

He likes me. He’s kind and protective of me. If I didn’t know the stories of things she and her sister lived through I would think he was a bit abrasive maybe, but harmless. It makes me feel like a traitor when I laugh along at his jokes. He should suffer for what he did. But he hasn’t suffered. He’s a happy old man, and everyone smiles and nods, afraid to bring up the vile thing he used to be.

Sometimes when I hear about her childhood I daydream out loud about building a Time Machine so I can go back to the 1980’s and snatch her away from her farm town and all of the people who didn’t understand this tiny furious tomboy. I fantasize that we go back and get her, rescue her from her shitty parents and raise her as our own here and now. We’d spoil her in all the best ways, keep her safe, sing and dance with her, let her cut her hair and use whatever pronouns she wanted. Whatever felt right. I want to heal her. That’s my fatal flaw.

Our little-selves hold so many of our burdens, didn’t all of us hope someone would come to our rescue when we were small? I did. I prayed for it. Was it the ghosts of our future selves and lovers, calling to us from a better time? Or just some intrinsic knowing, that we could save ourselves?

“You don’t gotta worry about me honey, I was tough, and I made it out just fine,” she squeezes me, smiles and reassures me. But I think about it the next time her face is hot and her eyes are glowing, the next time she stiffens or swerves. Our childhoods ripple through us.

Mine tells me to gather all the other wayward little ducklings and keep them safe from harm. Mine tells me I can’t put down my guard because I can’t trust anyone to be in charge, really. Mine tells me to sing real loud to drown out all the scary parts. She soothes my little-self easily, her voice so calm in my storms, evidence she’s survived many dragons.

Our histories make us magical some days.