Please Forget Me - Chapter 283

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

My grandmother locked me in a closet. For two whole days. She gave me only one glass of water a day.

You said it was punishment. That it was your fault was failing to behave like an ideal bride. That you had dared to voice your own thoughts and not lose to the noble youths during a debate.

The incident at the golf course—you may not know whether you were there, but you must have heard about it. I was locked in the closet then, too. I should have pretended to listen gratefully when they tried to teach me. I was punished for not knowing my place and for standing on my pride.

If anyone was at fault, it wasn’t you, it was me. I didn’t know what to do with the guilt I felt toward you. That was when I learned that my clumsy attempts at protecting you could end up harming you instead. From that day on, I resolved to be more careful in how I tried to shield you.

At times, that resolve turned into excessive caution. I regret that, too.

Still, she didn’t hit me. When I was younger, she used to slap my face or strike my head before locking me in. But for the past few years, she hasn’t beaten me.
I’m no longer at an age where I can run around and play. How could she explain bruises on my face?

And perhaps it’s because you’re no longer a useless parasite, but a valuable commodity. No merchant damages a doll they intend to sell.

You told me that your grandmother began abusing you after your mother left the house. That she would often threaten to discard you if you didn’t obey, calling you useless.

Each time, you were forced to kneel and beg forgiveness for things you hadn’t even done. You even said there was a time you were struck so hard that you suffered a concussion and lost your memory for several days.

…Why did the most precious person in my world have to be treated that way? Thinking of you made me unbearably sad. Thinking of your grandmother filled me with rage.

Dana, to be honest, I was heartbroken that you lost your memories. But part of me also felt relieved. You, freed from that shadowed and miserable past, looked so bright, so unblemished, so genuinely happy.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Please forgive me just this once.”

“Get up at once. Why are you begging for forgiveness?”

“Please don’t abandon me.”

“Promise you won’t do it again. Promise you’ll listen from now on.”

“Y-yes, I promise. If I break it, I’ll starve. I’ll stay locked in that closet all evening without food.”

But you hadn’t forgotten everything after all. The fear of abuse—learned through blows—remained like a violin scar: something etched so deeply into you that it could never fade.

Dana, that’s why I’m still sad. And why I still hate your grandmother.

I’m telling you this because, depending on the choice you make after hearing my story, you may be forced to face her again. With your memories gone, she might deceive you by pretending to be a loving grandmother.

…I’m relieved that you remember even a little. Though it’s tragic that this is something to be relieved about.

You must feel uncomfortable now, don’t you? It’s all right. You aren’t cruel—I am. I’m the one who brought up something so painful.
So even if you decide to distance yourself from me now, I’ll be all right. I won’t resent you. I truly mean that. I’ve never resented anyone in my life.

You said this wasn’t the first time you’d confessed to being abused. At first, people listened with sympathy. But little by little, they pulled away. After that, you stopped talking about it altogether. I promised I wouldn’t do the same, but you didn’t believe me.

Just please, don’t say that everyone grows up being hit, or that this is too small a thing to be hurt by. That hurts more than the blows themselves.
—

Dana, I would never say that—never even think about it. All I can think is how much I hate myself for not knowing that you were alone, terrified, enduring those two days by yourself. I’m fighting the urge to rush in and drag you out of that hell, to run away together.
If you think this sounds like empty comfort, then listen to my story. I didn’t suffer as much as you did, but I went through something similar. My parents starved me in an attempt to fix my bad habit.

At the time, they called it a bad habit because they were still afraid of revealing my condition, but what they meant was my mutism. A physician once prescribed something insane: that they should withhold food until I spoke clearly and precisely.

And so my parents denied me food for more than two weeks.

After that, I stopped believing that adults are wiser than children. My parents don’t think what they did was wrong, they believe only that I was hopeless for not being cured by starvation. Now that I’m grown, I’m just waiting for the day I can leave and live independently.
If that was what it was like for me, how much worse must it have been for you—who endured far more, for far longer.