Flashes Of Light

Past - Sveta

The men who found me in the alley were wrong. 

I had not forgotten everything about my old life. I just didn't want to share it with them. 

I didn't know my name. That was true. I had hit my head very hard after all. But it's also safe to say, that my name had never been used a lot.

I seemed to remember that it started with "S" because that was the pet name my mother used to give me. So, when the people at the orphanage asked, I told them as much.

A member of the staff opened a book -- I was later told that was how they chose names for all the orphan kids who didn't have one -- and christened me Svetlana after the daughter of somebody famous. I don't know who that is. Logar maybe would know.

I remember I was a little puzzled, because I did not want to have a Russian name. I didn't know anything about my family, which ethnicity we were, but I suppose we were Italian. We definitely came from that part of the continent. Greek, Turkish or South French, sadly, is something I'll never know.

My neighbourhood was not a bad neighbourhood.

But my house wasn't a home.

I couldn't remember my mother ever being nice to me or tell me that I was good at doing anything. I suppose I wasn't. I'd never been sent to school. 

Now, I ask myself how the neighbours didn't see the signs, but back then I was too little, and I thought there was nothing wrong. Now, I think my mother had probably too much shit to deal with. A terrible past could be in the cards.

Maybe she was mentally ill and she simply couldn't do better than that.

I knew I was a burden and that everybody considered me one. I was very lively, and even though I wasn't really made for learning, or so my father often said, I seemed to be curious enough to want to learn other things. Sadly, I was clumsy and most of my experiments turned out terrible disasters.

My father. I actually don't know whether the man is my father. Part of me tells me he isn't. I seem to have a very vague memory of my mother being with another man when I was younger. A darker man, Mediterrean like her. The new man was blond-haired and I always called him 'dad' but to tell the truth I am almost sure he wasn't.

I suppose there is every kind of story about men like him that could be shared. In my limited view of the world, I always thought a father could be terrible. He could beat you beyond measure, he could abuse you emotionally, but I've always thought a father wasn't likely to do what my 'dad' did to me.

Of course, it's not a rule. People like him are everywhere. But for most of my life, I thought most human behaviours followed a pattern. And that is also what my psychologist told me. And, according to that pattern, it is likely that a man who does something like that to you is someone who's close, but not too close.

Either way, when the man, I called him dad but his name was Elial, started doing it, I didn't know what he was doing. I thought it was a terrible thing, but I didn't understand why it was bothering me. It took me a little time to figure out exactly why I was feeling ashamed, until one time I told him it wasn't going to happen.

It had only happened a few times by then, but since I was five, I bet it would have happened more times if the orphanage hadn't taken me in. 

I don't remember how I found myself in the streets with a bleeding gash on my forehead and at least half of my memories gone, but I knew one thing.

It had happened after my fight with Elial. He was the one who hit my head against the wall.

I'd never told anybody. I guess I just couldn't see the point. Once the orphanage gave me a new life I didn't really are about letting people know what happened before. My past mattered very much to me, but I didn't like the idea of sharing it.