(prompt: 'grow' 13/12/2019)

"I CAN'T change," she said, her bitter eyes glittering defiantly... hard and emotionless.

"I was born to a pair of alcoholics." Her voice held a flatness, an absence of hope.

"You could say I was a born alcoholic." She laughed, but it was humourless.

"They robbed me of EVERYTHING." Her lip curled. She left no room for doubt about the pain behind her words. But there were no tears. No doubt they had been cried out long ago.

"All they knew was ways to abuse me." She scrubbed her nose violently as though physical pain could relieve the nightmares. And shook her head from side to side as though to empty the memories and wipe her mind-slate clean.

"But not Mum," she said, and the set of her mouth brooked no discussion. Her belief was obviously absolute. Or so she had long convinced herself.

"She didn't know what was happening to me, I swear."

And the eyes of her audience slid away from her; away from the magnetism of her words. Their eyes reflected disbelief. Not in the statement of this tragic victim. No. There was no mistaking the abrupt tremble and then determined tightening of her lips before the pain in her voice bore testimony. Their doubts surrounded the mother who could truly remain unknowing of a situation like this. The skepticism was reflected around the table, beyond their individual experiences, and beyond any wish to acknowledge this unimaginable departure from decency, from humanity. This was rapidly becoming the most painful confrontation the small audience had experienced.

The psyche of those raised in typically traditional loving families was shocked... outraged. Their stricken faces showed they couldn't imagine anyone retaining their sanity and ability to grow, let alone even survive in a world such as hers had been. And the sorrow flowed in those who possessed well-developed empathy. Although they knew nothing of darkness and evil such as this, they tried valiantly to understand the horrific and lifelong effects on the victim, who'd lost her soul way back when she was only a child.

"Does telling your story help you at all?" A matronly, motherly lady sat alongside, her voice kind and encouraging as she reached out a hand to touch the tragic woman. Looking around the table, it was obvious some believed their love and acceptance of this dreadfully damaged being could begin a positive change. Hope flickered tenuously in the eyes and bated breath of others. Maybe a rebirth of sorts might take place; a new strength be born and bloom... destroying all self-disbelief and low esteem. Maybe.

Afterword: Came back to say most of this lady's problems continue, but she is reaching out further afield for help, with a more courageous attitude these days. Her empathetic and caring audience are optimistic some fine seeds have been planted, ready to flourish in their own time.

'Hope springs eternal', wrote Alexander Pope in his poem, An Essay on Man.