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My completed stories |
| What you don't want to happen to you or anyone close to you. I don’t think anyone believes me. I speak the words to define what has happened to me and they look at me without interest. I realize that far worse things have happened to others but each pain is hard on each individual. He claimed to love her. That was what he told my mom. That he loved her and wanted to marry her and that he didn’t care that she was married before and already had children. And she wanted to believe it so badly that she forced herself to see past the faults. The obvious faults. He liked to hit. I saw them at night, heard the ugly hateful things he’d say as he’d drag her to the bathroom mirror in our studio apartment and show her. “Look how ugly you are. Look.” As he’d hold her by her hair and she’d stand there naked crying and I’d force my eyes shut and cry too. “You whore. You ugly whore.” To tell you the truth, I don’t remember the exact words. I was, after all, only in third or fourth grade at the time. But I remember the sobbing and the screams, I remember the hitting and the yelling and the drunken slurring. I lived with my mother for many years and he hit and yelled and I listened and cried. I tried to pretend that everything was all right. I found my mother lying naked with some man in the living room under a blanket one night and I told my dad. She denied it. “My friend and I were cold.” She said. I would never tell anyone this but I believed her to be a slut at the time. Sleeping with strange men while she and my dad had just so recently divorced. The pain was intense for me. I remember my dad saying that it wasn’t working out and that he and my mom were getting a divorce. I remember the cold feeling, kneeling beside their bed with my brother, feeling the earth tremble and the thunder crash. My dad said that we would both live with my mom, my brother and I, in an apartment nearby and we would visit. “I want to stay with you dad.” My brother replied. I saw my mom’s face fall and in my heart I knew what I had to say. “I want to live with mom.” I didn’t, though. Even now I remember that I didn’t want to go with her, that I wanted to stay with my dad. But I love my mom and the pain on her face was too much for me to bear. So we left, my mom, and me and I was forced into a world of silence and abuse. I don’t remember my mom ever hitting me. An occasional slap on the face for a bad word spoken, a spanking with the belt, a little dress belt that didn’t hurt at all and made me and my brother laugh. But he changed all that. He came in like they always do, happy and loving, spoiling little kids like me and smiling all the time. But soon they change. Like a storm on the horizon, you watch it approach and when it arrives there is nothing you can do but take the downpour. Cursing and hitting and other such nonsense that caused me to tremble under my covers at night. He didn’t hit me right away, I thought he never would. I was wrong. I remember vividly the first time my mom ‘lost it’ and hit me. We were at Pizza Hut but I was young and I didn’t want pizza. So I threw a fit. Now, to understand you must see that this was when they had Tuesday Night Kids Night, kids eat free. So, every Tuesday we went there. I was sick of pizza. My mom took me into the bathroom and slapped me around. She had never done that before. The rest of my life, the times she ‘lost it’ and slapped me around are all a blur. There were quite a few times but to recall them all would be too painful for me. And her. Needless to say, I now flinch when someone raises a hand too quickly or makes a sudden move in my direction. Even as I write this I feel as though I am betraying my mom. I feel the automatic guilt rising up again. But I must press on for my sake if not only to make everyone aware of the repercussions of abusive relationships. Even mild, seemingly unimportant ones have serious backlashes. We moved a city an hour away from where I grew up. My mom, her boyfriend, who I will call Frank, and me lived in a two-bedroom apartment. I attended a local elementary school and actually had a lot of friends and was happy. My mom continued to commute the hour drive to the nearby town to work while Frank transferred to a business in town. Basically, I was left to my own devises between the hours of 3pm and 6:30pm. I made friends in the apartment complex, I enjoyed my teacher whose name was impossible to spell but fun to say, the principal had the name of a famous television dad and I was actually enjoying the schoolwork. We had reading time and I was, in an attempt to show off, working my way through a very thick book called The Pushcart War. I was in fourth grade. I was listening to music with my friend while working on our homework one afternoon in my apartment. My friend she had to go home so I offered to walk her. She lived in the back of our complex while I lived in the front. I walked her home, said good-bye and walked happily back home. Frank was there. “Go to your room.” “Okay.” I had no reason to fear him. None that I would acknowledge anyway. When we lived in a little trailer I used to curl up by the heater vent in the winter when I woke in the morning. It was always cold there. One morning I awakened unable to see or breathe. I began to throw my hands about wildly and kick. Suddenly there was air and light and his stupid voice asking me what I was doing. To this day I swear he had covered my head with a pillow. I never told my mom. Anyway, I went to my room with my homework in hand and sat on my bed. “Lie down on the floor.” He said, as he came in a few minutes later. Why not? I did. He rolled me on my stomach and tied my hands behind my back with shoelaces and my feet with belts. He placed a long belt in my mouth and pulled my head back and tied it to my feet. Then he began hitting and kicking me everywhere. This went on for awhile, I won’t even guess at the time for minutes can seem like hours in this sort of torture. He finally stopped and lifted his foot. I shut my eyes, expecting him to step on my head. This is it, I thought, he’s going to kill me. But he stepped over me and out of the room. Moments later, as I lay there crying, the gag had come off, I tried to think of what I did to deserve this. Frank came in and asked me, “Can’t you sit up?” In the cold cruelty of the moment, all one can think of is, If I don’t sit up he’ll hit me again. “I think so.” And I did. With my feet bound and my hands tied I sat up against my bed. Minutes later he came in and untied me. “Don’t tell anyone or I’ll do it again.” And he left me. I didn’t tell. I didn’t mention it. I didn’t think of it. I didn’t want it to happen again. I then understood why secrets were often kept. Many weeks passed and I lived happily again. I attended my school joyfully and still laughed and visited my friends. Then, once again, I found myself on the floor, bound head to foot but not beaten. This was at around three in the afternoon. At one point Frank came in to ask me, once again, if I could sit up. So I did, bound and sitting in my room thinking of nothing. I honestly can’t remember what was going through my head at the time. I can’t think of anything that I said or thought or what I did while I sat there for hours. He untied me at around 4:45pm then had me go downstairs and peel the chili he was roasting. One of the shoelaces on my wrist was so tight he had to cut it off with a knife and it left an angry red line on my wrist. The next day I went to school and acted as if nothing happened. As three o’clock drew closer I feigned ill. They sent me to the nurse and called him. I then found my way out. “No. Don’t call him. He’ll beat me.” Now maybe that was foolish but I didn’t want to go home ever again. I didn’t want to see my room or him or anything to remind me of the hours bound in my room. They stared at me and I felt like I had to lie. “I’m not allowed to see the nurse. He’ll beat me.” I guess that did it. Now that I think back, I realize how that sounds. I can’t see the nurse because he beats me and he leaves marks. That’s how it sounded. I didn’t see that then. They called him back and told him my mom was coming for me. I guess he said that she works in the town an hour away and they told him that they realized that but she was coming anyway. I sat in the nurse’s office at my favorite school till around six o’clock. My teacher had been told something was wrong and she came in and gave me some pilgrims and turkeys to color since it was close to Thanksgiving. I had a picture of my dad getting his hair cut by a friend in my markers box and it comforted me while I sat there and colored and wondered if I did something wrong. They took me to a place for abused and abandoned children. I honestly don’t remember who took me. I got a stuffed animal immediately and talked to a councilor. I ate dinner and waited. They asked me if I wanted to go home. I said no. They sent me anyway. My mom came for me. I don’t remember if she talked or comforted me. I just remember her asking me why I didn’t tell her. I wonder now, if I had told her, would it have been different. I went to live with my dad for awhile. My dad was furious and one day he beat up Frank. She was still with him. That hurt more than anything else did. She stayed with him and she married him later on. My dad was arrested for beating up Frank, I saw my dad hitting him over and over again. While I was living with my dad, I accidentally broke the window in my room. I told my dad and he went looking for something to cover it up. I sat on the small table in the corner of my room and pulled my legs up to my chest filled with a fear that I did not even realize I had inside me. A cold irrational fear that told me there was nowhere safe for me. That I was a screw up and that I would always be hit. My dad came in and saw me sitting there like that. “What are you doing?” Not cruel but curious. “I’m cold.” I lied. He looked at me for a moment. “I’m not going to hit you. You’re not in trouble. Come down from there.” I did. He fixed the window and we never mentioned the incident again. I’m not saying my dad is perfect. I love my dad and my mom. I just needed to do this. For me and for you. You see, everyday this happens and if you are the one it’s happening to you need to get out. Whatever way you can. I still cried on some of these parts and I had to stop typing and turn away. It hurts but you can overcome. If you read this on stories.com then email me. I want to hear from you. It always feels better when you talk about stuff. Especially to someone who will listen. THIS SONG TRULY SPOKE TO ME: Illegal Shakira featuring Carlos Santana Lyrics by Shakira/Music by Shakira and Lester Mendez Who would’ve thought that you could hurt me The way you’ve done it So deliberate, so determined And since you have been gone I bite my nails for days and hours And question my own questions on and on So tell me now, tell me now Why you’re so far away When I’m still so close CHORUS: You don’t even know the meaning of the words “I’m Sorry” You said you would love me until you die And as far as I know you’re still alive, baby And you don’t even know the meaning of the words “I’m Sorry” I’m starting to believe it should be illegal to deceive A woman’s heart I tried so hard to be attentive To all you wanted Always supportive, always patient What did I do wrong? Been wondering for days and hours It’s clear it isn’t here where you belong Anyhow, anyhow I wish you both all the best I hope you get along CHORUS: You don’t even know the meaning of the words “I’m Sorry” You said you would love me until you die And as far as I know you’re still alive, baby And you don’t even know the meaning of the words “I’m Sorry” I’m starting to believe it should be illegal to deceive A woman’s heart CHORUS: You don’t even know the meaning of the words “I’m Sorry” You said you would love me until you die And as far as I know you’re still alive, baby And you don’t even know the meaning of the words “I’m Sorry” I’m starting to believe it should be illegal to deceive A woman’s heart Open heart, open heart It should be illegal to deceive a woman’s heart Open heart, open heart It should be illegal to deceive a woman’s heart |
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