Scars.

However forgetful a person is, there are always days, moments, or even a fraction of a moment, that he can never erase from his head. Like bad scars, they are here to stay.

I remember, like it was yesterday, the times back when I was a kid, how my mum would hit me with a rattan when I misbehaved. She would hit me so hard I could see drops of sweat on her face. I didn't know better then, but now I do - it pains me physically when the rattan lands on my thigh, but it pains her heart when she has to whip the rattan on her little girl's chubby thigh. It's the ultimate manifestation of a mother's love.

I remember that day, when I was sitting in the back of the car, dad driving and mum in the front. Driving through the tunnel, I caught a glimpse of myself through the side window of the car, and I saw this sad, soul-less, sunken-cheeked face. Parents collecting their heartbroken daughter home.

I remember that look on his face, even though it lasted for only a split second, that look of indifference, like he didn't care if I was alive or dead. I was disgusted with myself for sinking so low for someone who didn't even give a shit about me. At that moment, I swore I would always, always love myself, no matter what.

I remember every moment of those 10 days in the otherwise ordinary month of May, 2007. Death is inevitable, but God is always in control.

I remember what happened in the early hours of 4 June, 1989.

When you, with all the amazing capacity of a brain, cannot recall a happy moment in your life, you know you either have an extremely miserable life, or that it's time for chocolate icecream. I am going to the fridge now.