Dysfunctional

         She knew she wasn't really wanted, knew this from the time she could speak in complete sentences. She was repeatedly told what a mistake she was, a last attempt at saving an already failed marriage. Unfortunately, her father was beyond the point of caring by the time she came, as he found his lovely wife to be a complete faithless disloyal psychotic sex addict. Her mother had a habit of leaving her and her brother alone while she took off with numerous nameless men. Her father would come home from work, no wife...just the children and a note. There seemed to be many "family emergencies" as that's what the infamous notes always said. Aunt Midge had "passed" away twice in 87, poor woman. One day it was just too much and he packed up his two children, dumped them on his mother - in - law, and ran home to his own mother.
          So, this is how my story begins, my life from the age of seven till today. I'm starting at seven because frankly that's my earliest and clearest memories. It's not that I think anyone will be interested, it's just some things need to be said. I've been told it's a cathartic experience, spiritually and emotionally purifying. We'll see...
          Now at seven I had no idea of the concept of man/woman relationships. What I believed is if you loved someone you married them and lived happily ever after. At least that's what always happened in the movies. They don't tell you that happily ever after is really only a fairy tale, a lie, unattainable for real people. In this case happily ever after lasted only seven short bitter years.
         A big deal was made about my parents divorce, why? I have no idea. From what I was told, they didn't love each other anymore. Couldn't stand to be in the same room together. Now if this was true why on weekends when he came to pick up my brother and myself did he take my mother too? Why did they still share a bed? Didn't they decide they didn't love, let alone like each other anymore? (I was naive enough at the time to believe that sex was about love when it usually has nothing to do with that elusive emotion and more to do with the pleasure that comes from the act itself.) But at the time I was very confused about this and asked my grandmother.
         She just looked at me, shrugged and said, "Better the devil ya know." Huh? That made no sense to me. I later came to realize that letting go of something known, something familiar is a hard thing to do. Some people have a hard time dealing with change. They would rather stay with the "devil" that was familiar then go out into the unpredictable overwhelming world of unknown "devils."
          This situation didn't last long anyway as, surprisingly my father met a new devil and moved away for a time. This did not make the crazy lady, otherwise known as my mother, happy. She went to his mother’s house in the dead of night on the eve of his and his new girlfriend’s departure, snuck up to his car and took a screwdriver and ripped the seats to pieces, put sugar in the gas tank and busted every light, window and mirror that was on it. I came to understand the saying "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" Maybe that should be "Hell hath no fury like a psychotic woman replaced by a younger prettier sane one."
          So it was my brother, my mother and myself. We moved in with her parents, my grandparents, and she continued once again with her "disappearances." Sometimes she was gone for more than two weeks at a time. Every time she returned she was happy, for a time at least. Never for long as she needed the constant praise from the opposite sex. She needed to feel desirable, wanted. One day she just took off with a truck driver she had met from God knows where. She was gone for almost four years. Well, I believe it was four years, I can't rightly recall her from the age of seven to eleven. I can't say I minded that she took off as she did. I was just something to be tolerated anyway, blamed for my father's leaving. I remember wishing he would come back and take me away from her. Of course, that never happened. If he had things might be different now, I might be different now. I wouldn't be a boy, which was something valuable in my family, but I might've been noticed, cared for or loved.
          Boys were and have always been favored in my family. They made such a big deal over my brother. He was brilliant, a genius. Big things were gonna happen for him. The possibilities were endless, they would say. Then they would look at me sadly and lower their voices.."She must take after her father's side, hopefully she'll find a decent man to take care of her." They always had that "look" on their faces..that look of fake sympathy. A patronizing air about them that made me feel like an insignificant bug, grateful that I wasn't smushed underfoot. They also often talked about me as if I wasn't there or most likely didn't care, they believed me to be such a lackwit that they thought I wouldn't understand what they were saying anyway. You can learn many things with a blank stare and vacant smile.
         I think because of this I started to act out, just to get any kind of attention. Good or bad, I didn't care. I just wanted someone to know I was alive. When I was nine we lived next to a motel. My friend was the daughter of the people who owned it. One day I talked her into climbing the antenna on the back of the building. There we were so high up off the ground, it was then I realized I was frightened of heights. Frightened? Hell, I was terrified! All I could do was lie on the roof and pray someone would get me down without actual movement on my part. I remember closing my eyes and laying my face down on the asphalt. It was so hot against my cheek, but I didn't care. I couldn't open my eyes because the world would spin every time I did. I believed the only thing that was keeping me from falling was squeezing my eyes tightly closed. I don't know how long we were up there, seemed like forever before my uncle climbed up after us. He took us down one at a time. Of course, he took Chantelle first. He wanted me to be terrified, it gave him some kind of a thrill. After he got me down he chased me home, beatin' my ass every step of the way.
          That boy liked to torture me, he also liked to invite his friends to the party. Incidentally, he's not much older than I am, just ten years or so. Although you couldn't tell it by his immature attitude. But of course, he was the baby and a boy. That made him twice as special.
          I remember the day him and his friend Jacob made me eat dirt. I was just minding my own business staying out of everyone's way. I was on my way to visit Chantelle, my motel owning friend. I was just gonna walk past them like I didn't see them. I thought that would be the wisest thing to do. As I started past, my Uncle Jamie jumped in front of me and blocked my way. I stopped, startled, and made to move around him when his friend Jacob stepped in front of me on the other side. With a sinking feelin' in the pit of my stomach, I knew that is was now playtime for them. They didn't have anything to amuse them that afternoon, just me. I remember feeling so helpless, so tired of not being able to stop them. I felt like crying, but I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing one single tear fall. I grew very angry, I almost hated them. I've never hated anyone in all my life, as I believe it's a waste of time and energy. Nevertheless, what I felt was very close, if not the actual emotion.
          All the things he'd ever done to me flashed through my mind. I made to move past them again, hoping against hope they'd let me pass with no trouble. But every time I zigged, they zagged. I looked up at them and saw they were grinning like idgits. They were really enjoying themselves. I started to back up slowly, I've heard that's how you get away from mad dogs, show no fear and keep moving as slow as possible as not to alert them that they're prey was trying to escape. I had backed up quite a bit from them when they started to move in. What scared me the most was that they didn't hurry just came towards me as if they didn't have a care in the world smiling all the while. My heart started thundering against my chest. I started to feel sick to my stomach, so scared of what they would do this time. I turned to run, to get away as far and as fast as I could. I'd taken less than two steps when I felt an arm wrap around me from behind pulling me up close and hard against his body. I struggled, kicking and screaming begging to be let go.
          Jacob squatted down to be eye level with me. "What's the matter little bit?" He liked to call me that all the time. Everyone thought it was cute, but I saw the look in his eyes when he said it. Hatred and...something else. Something I couldn't name at the time, something I won't name now.
         I don't know why I did it, it was stupid without a doubt, but I just looked at him and the coldness in his eyes and spit right in his face. It was the only thing I could do, I wasn't physically able to hurt them. He then did the funniest thing...he laughed, laughed while spit dripped down his face. Still laughing he reached down, picked up a handful of dirt, and shoved it into my mouth. Pushing his hand against my mouth hard bruising my lips and bringing tears to my eyes, tears I swore I wouldn't shed. He stood just looking at me as I was spitting dirt out of my mouth trying to get that earthy taste out. Next thing I knew his fist was comin down in a flash. I felt it more than saw it. He had cuffed me right upside the head, hard. It's really true like on the cartoons when Wile E. Coyote gets hit with an anvil he has the birds and stars floating around his head. I saw stars and colors, no birds just flashes of bright colors. I vaguely remember them discussing taking me into the woods behind the house. Lord knows what they had in mind do to me but thank God, my grandfather came out and asked what had happened to me, as I was lying limp in Jamie's arms. They told him they were just helping me because I'd taken a nasty spill. tripped over my own feet as I've a habit of doin'. I'm not the most graceful of people, I'll be the first to admit. They were just about to bring me into the house is what they told him. My grandfather came out, picked me up into his arms, and started to carry me toward the house.
         He'd taken a few steps when he stopped and turned to look at Jamieand Jacob. "Let's make sure she don't take no more spills around you two any time soon, alright?" That was his way of saying "Stay the hell away from her!" My grandfather loved me, sadly, he was the only one.
         My grandfather would always take me for walks with him, up until he couldn't get around anymore. We'd just walk and talk, about nothing in particular. Just life in general but he listened. He paid attention to everything I said. Not that I was the greatest conversationalist. I'd ramble about nonsense and he'd just look at me and smile and nod, sometimes he'd take this old beat up black bowler he always wore and place it on my head. I'd look up at him and smile the hat falling over my eyes and he'd laugh and flick the brim with a finger.
          I remember one walk in particular we had. It was strange really, like he had something really important to say but didn't know how to get it out. We walked hand in hand down the front drive when all of a sudden he stopped, looked down at me and said. "You know Sassyfras," he called me that because I thought saying sassafras tea was funny and he said I had a sassy mouth on me to boot. He considered his next words carefully. "Sometimes people are just born...wrong."
         He thought for a second then nodded, "Yep, kinda like they lost something on the way to bein' born." He was a firm believer that all babies came straight from Heaven. That all new souls picked out their own parents. If that's the case then I've been makin' very bad decisions even before I was born. A tradition I've kept up very well to this day. I stood there and thought really hard. Maybe I was one of those people that was born..."wrong." Was that what he was trying to tell me? Was that the reason that people looked down at me? I didn't feel wrong, but I guess I wouldn't know if I was defective or not. People treated me as if I was different, a little off even.          This was some new information that I hadn't even thought about and would have to mull over for a long time. I then began to wonder if someone could become "right." Was it possible to find whatever I'd lost? I still wonder to this day if it's possible. I'm still looking for all the pieces that will make me whole, make me "right."
         He looked down at me for what seemed like forever with an awful sadness in his eyes as if he knew what the future held for me, then he suddenly smiled, flicked the brim of the hat and said, "Race ya to the house, Sassyfras!" He took off flying down the lane daring me to try to catch up. I've never been one that can resist a challenge so I would place a hand on my head holding the hat down and pump my legs as fast as I could. What always amazed me was though I knew he should have been faster I always won. As always, just as I reached the porch steps he'd snatch me up, put me on his shoulders, carry me into the house, and gently toss me onto the couch. There we would watch cartoons for a time, till my grandmother would say it was enough. She said that television took away a persons ability to think for themselves and since I had a hard enough time as it was the less TV I watched the better.
          One of my grandmother's favorite pastimes was to play pranks on me. These pranks traumatized me and are responsible for most of my fears and odd personality quirks to this day. Because of her I'm now afraid of clowns, I can't look out a window at night, and it's also impossible for me to sleep with my feet uncovered.
          I slept on the couch in the living room under a large bay window because I didn't have a bed anymore. For some unfathomable reason I had set it on fire just a week before. That was the first time my grandfather had ever spanked me. I was devastated, I thought he didn't love me anymore. I didn't know that he'd been frightened of me being hurt or worse, killed. So, I no longer could have my own room. I had to sleep in the living room so they could keep on eye on me they said.
          Well, one night it was stormin' real bad. Thunder and lightening the whole works. I got ready for bed and nestled down in the sofa and before long I was dozing off. A little while later I heard this 'tap' tap' I had no idea where it was comin' from as I was half asleep. I decided I must have been dreamin, pulled the blankets up over my head and drifted off again. I don't know how long it was before I heard the same tapping only it was louder this time, more insistent. I decided to be brave and pull my head from under the blanket and take a peek. I looked towards the window and screamed. I'd never been so scared in all my life. There against the window was this clown thing floating in mid air while the wind whipped and howled, lightening streaking the sky. It had the most hideous grin, so frightening to a child of 7. The woman of 50 some years had climbed up onto the roof in the middle of a storm and tied a rope around an old clown rag doll just to scare me. This is also why I can't look out of a window at night. I'm afraid of what might look back.
          To this day I can't sleep with my feet uncovered on account of a story she once told me about a man who had lost his big toe in some kind of farming accident. She told me he wanders around looking for a big toe, any big toe. Now the story wasn't as scary as she'd would've liked I'm sure. Maybe that was why she would sneak up on me in the dead of night while I was sleeping and yank on my big toe yelling loudly, "I want my big toe!" I would wake up screaming each time thinking that he'd really come for my big toe. I never knew when she was gonna do it, so from that point on I became a night owl. Still one to this day..
          I know my grandmother loved me in her own way. She just wanted what was best for me is all. What she thought was best was to get me married off as soon as legally possible. That's why she kept my hair brushed neat and shiny with pretty little ribbons, to make me more appealing she said. I think that at the age of ten any man that found me appealing in that kind of way is only one-step away from a criminal record. So, I had to wear dresses all the time because ladies didn't wear pants. Which is why I wondered then, did she wear them? What she really meant is that unmarried young ladies should always wear dresses because it reminds men of their mothers. I guess it's just something that all men want...to marry someone like their mother. Someone to cook and clean for them, to wait on them hand and foot. Which is ironically what I wanted also, a man that would cook and clean for me. A man who would think I was the greatest thing and worship the ground I walked upon. Not something that was likely to happen since I've heard my grandmother say quite often that it was a shame I was born with a face that would stop a clock. I later came to find out that wasn't a good thing.
          I hated the ribbons and the dresses and as far as I was concerned, if men liked dresses so damn much then they should be the ones to have to wear them. I hated the hard stiff starchy slip and the damned tights and patent-leather Mary Janes. I've gotten in trouble many a time for ruining many a dress. The way I looked at it is if I had to wear the damn things then she better get used to having to mend and clean them because I wasn't gonna stop being who I was, and that was somethin' of a tomboy.
          I know I was a disappointment to her, I've always been a disappointment to everyone except my grandfather, he accepted me as I was. I truly thought he'd be around forever to look after me, to keep all the bad things away. I thought as I got older things would get better, easier even. I thought this when I was young and naive. A foolish child who thought the world was fair and just and good always triumphed over evil. Then I stepped into the real world the day my mother came home with her new husband in tow.
          It was just two days after I turned eleven that my mother and her new husband pulled up to the house. I remember my first look at him. He was so very tall and so very thin with a sharp beaky nose and craggy features. He reminded me of Mr. Spock from Star Trek, he could have been his twin. His less handsome twin of course. I didn't like him from the very beginning, but my mother seemed happy. I decided to give him a chance. Everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt, regardless of appearance. But there was just....something about him that made me feel uneasy.
          She got to the reason they had come quickly, as if she couldn't stand to be there any longer than she had to be. They had come to pick me and my brother up and take us to our new home. She said that children needed to be with their mother. All I could do was stare at her. When had she become a mother? I didn't want to go with this stranger. I barely knew this woman who called herself my mother.
         Turns out I had very little choice in the matter. With a heavy heart I gathered my things and followed them out to the car. My brother held my hand as the miles passed, whispering to me that things were gonna be fine, just wait and see. I trusted him at his word. Although he was just one year older I knew he was smarter, wiser. I knew he would watch out for me, take care of me. I started to feel happier about the situation, started to think of it as a new adventure. New people and a new home. This could very well be a good thing. How very wrong I was....
          This is going to be the abridged version of this brief interval in my life. Somethings can never be told, should never be told. They say that all things fade in time. To an extent some things do, but also in turn some things stay vivid and real as if they only happened yesterday. These are the things that still keep me up at night.
          My brother and I were given our own rooms. My brother was given the room that was right at the top of the stairs. I was given the bigger one at the end of the hall. It used to belong to my step-fathers son, Richard. The room was painted blood red accompanied by red carpet speckled with black. They repainted the wall a lovely shade of lavender, but left the awful crimson carpet. I didn't really care though, I was just happy to have my own room. I soon came to miss sleeping on the sofa.
          Things went well for the first couple of weeks. My brother and I were given chores that we had to do, this was reasonable to me. When you're in a family it takes each person doing their part to keep it goin'. Although as the days passed I noticed that my list of tasks got longer and longer as my brother's got shorter and shorter, until one day I noticed that all the work was mine.
          A typical day for me during the school year was to be up two hours earlier than everyone else to get breakfast started. If there was laundry that had to be folded and put away I was to do that before I was allowed to eat. It always ended up where I had no time for it. Now I can't eat that early because it makes me sick to my stomach. After I put away laundry, I would then make up a tray and take my mother her breakfast. While everyone ate I had to do some last minute tasks. I usually had less than thirty minutes to get the beds made and the dishes done before makin' a run to the bus stop. I walked to school a lot that first year until I picked up a rhythm.
          Things went pretty good the first two weeks of my new life. Until I started to notice how my step-father, Reggie was his name, would stand close, too close to me when he was speaking....
          As the days passed things started to change. Not too much at first, but enough to make me feel uncomfortable. Reggie would "accidentally" bump up against me and then grab my shoulders with concern and care to steady me. He kept his hands on me just a little too long for just fatherly concern though. I tried to be careful not to offend him because I noticed that if I tried to move away before he was willing to let go his grip would tighten ever so slightly and a look would come into is eyes that terrified me. He took great pleasure in causing others pain. This I would find out first hand...and soon.
          Honestly I don't even know how the time-limits came about. I never thought I was taking too long to do my chores. But that must've been the case. Why else would they put time limits on me? It was always with the dishes though. Nothing else. I've never to this day understood why. I suppose when my mother was in the mood to hurl a glass at my head she preferred it to be clean. Also lucky me, my mother was the one who kept time and if I was one second over everything in all the cabinets would come out and I'd have to wash those within the same time limit. Really unfair that was. If I could't do dishes for four people in that amount of time how could I do five times as many? If I failed again to finish in the allotted time then my step-father would punish me. I always failed. His type of punishment was something I wasn't used to. At first it was just a slap across the face but each passing day it grew more and more severe. As my first month drew to a close in my new home hell slowly opened up.
         One sunday afternoon I was at the sink doing dishes (I stood at that sink for most of my teen life) my mother was behind me sitting at the kitchen table. She looked over at me and said "Come here."
         Since I was washing a glass I said, "In a minute." I wanted to finish what I was doing before I got in trouble. I reckon she didn't like my answer since all of sudden I felt a hard tug on the back of my hair as I was drug backwards from the sink. I was flung to the floor and kicked repeatedly all over, every place that was open received a blow.
          "I fucking told you to come here, dammit!" Each word was punctuated with a hard kick. I was just so shocked I didn't know what to do. I curled my body up as tightly as I could trying to be a smaller target, hoping to minimize the pain. The only thing that was running over and over in my head was..."Why?" What had I done so bad that I deserved such harshness. As quickly as it started it was over. I remember looking up at her with tears running down my face not able to say a word. I lay there on the floor begging with my eyes for an explanation, a reason for the sudden attack. All I got was, "When I say come here that means now, not in a minute." I learned to come running like a well trained puppy.
          My mother didn't often mete out punishment. She left that job for my step-father. The worst punishment I ever received from him came late one Thursday night right before my twelfth birthday. Strange thing is I hadn't done anything wrong that I could recall. I had just climbed into bed thinking about the day that I had. School had gone really well. I made the solo for choir and the boy I liked, Jimmy Motts, liked me back, according to my friends anyway. Life wasn't so bad at the moment.
          A sudden noise had me jerking awake it seemed but a few short minutes after I'd drifted off. I looked around the darkened room but saw nothing and figured it was my imagination. I snuggled down into my blankets and began to drift off once again excited about school the next day. Jimmy had given me a note before last period and asked me to meet him by his locker before school the following morning. My mind kept going over what he wanted to say to me. I was hoping he was going to ask me to the dance that was coming up. I began to dream of what it would be like to dance with a boy. I'd never done it before and was very excited with the thought of being held that close by someone as cute as Jimmy. I wondered if he'd try to kiss me, I also wondered if I'd let him.
          Honestly I don't recall how it came about, all I know is one minute I'm dreaming about being kissed by the boy I like and the next I'm being pushed down into my bed by a hard body. I remember looking up with surely with a "what in the hell?" look in my eyes before I saw the look in his. It was my step father, Reggie. He was pushing me down into the bed with a hand over my mouth and a, well, I can't say a hatred. I can't precisely say what the look was but I can say his eyes had a "fevered" look about them. Kind of glassy..yet intense.
          He leaned down near my face and whispered harshly, "Not one sound, I can snap your neck before you make a another." As I looked up into his face I believed him. The cold reality set in, I believed that he could kill me without a second thought, without one bit of remorse.
          Without moving his hand from my mouth he slightly lifted his body to sweep the blankets off of me. Each second that passed the more I knew with a fear so painful that had my heart beating against my chest like a freight train of what was going to happen. I began to shake my head pleading with my eyes for him not to do what he was thinking. But I knew he was too far gone into whatever...emotion he was in to care. He reached down and grasped my panties in one hand and just...ripped them right off of me. I began to struggle. I was damned if I was going to make this easy on him. I kicked at him and bit his hand as hard as I could. All he did was lift a fist and gave me a punch in the jaw that had me reeling. I blinked the stars away and began to cry and beg to be let go. What else could I do, he was so much bigger than me. All I had were my tears and a hope that he had some compassion. He didn't. In desperation I began to struggle like a wild animal kicking and bucking my body, twisting and turning in the hopes that he'd let go and I could escape. I wasn't even being quiet anymore, I would have prefered to have my neck snapped than to endure what I knew was going to happen. He just gripped my thighs and pulled me up closer to him.
          Why didn't anyone hear me?! Why didn't someone come and help me?! "Oh God oh God oh God, why?!" "Why was this happening to me?!" That's the only thoughts my mind could wrap around.
         He leaned over and looked into my eyes right before he pushed himself into my body. I'd never felt such pain in all my life, not even when my brother and I were playing and he pushed me into the coffee table and split my chin wide open. I had thought that pain was unimaginable.That was nothing compared to this agony. I felt like my body was shattering into a million painful pieces with each thrust of his body into mine. I don't know where I went but I knew I wasn't there anymore. At least not mentally. My mind had taken me some place else, some place where this kind of thing didn't really happen. I believe I was trying to convince myself it was all just a terrible dream, a nightmare that I'd soon wake from. I heard him grunt and groan and then felt a heaviness on me where he'd fallen, exhausted. But this wasn't real, this was just a dream. I was going to wake up at any minute, the alarm was sure to go off. I had to meet Jimmy today by his locker. I felt him move off of me and heard his foosteps as he walked across the room to the door. I pulled myself up into the fetal position in my dream...because that's all this was...just a terrible dream....
         I woke later to an insistent buzzing in my ear. I groggily lifted my head and looked around, my head full of morning haziness. I reached over to hit the button to stop the alarm when a sudden pain shot through me, reminding me of the previous night's dream.
         I was still holding to the belief that it really was just a dream. But in the back of my mind an in the bottom of my heart I knew I was just lying to myself. As I lay there doubled over in pain I knew I had one of two choices. I could tell my mother what had happened and hope she believed me. Maybe hold me close and comfort me, telling me she would take care of everything. Promising that she'd never let him hurt me again. Maybe she would even tell me she loved me.This last thought made me snort in derision. So, option B it was. Pretend nothing happened and go about my life as if I'd never had my innocence ripped from me in one brief violent act. I was very good at playing "let's pretend."
         I crawled out of bed slowly, my body protesting every movement. I turned to make my bed as I do first thing every morning. I was proud of my self control. I knew I could get through this with a relatively sane mind as long as I didn't think too hard. I began to pull the blankets up when I noticed a small red stain on the sheet. My hands started to shake, my stomach began to roll. I averted my eyes and pulled the blanket up quickly and pretended I saw nothing. I knew I would have to deal with this at some point. But right now my control was too precarious, too new to challenge. I turned away quickly an bolted for the door. The sooner this day was was over the better off I'd be.
         As I made my way down the stairs I pushed every thought that didn't have to do with my chores to the back of my mind. I made my way into the kitchen and began making breakfast, finding solace in the mundane, the every day tasks. I didn't have to think I just had to do. I was just putting my mother's plate of pancakes on her tray when Reggie walked into the kitchen. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I was trapped in that cold stare. I tried to find regret or an apology in that gaze. I found neither. What I did find was something that terrified me. A look that held something akin to possesion. I then had the sinking feeling that last night was only the beginning. The plate fell out of my lifeless fingers an fell to the floor shattering in a million pieces. Yanking my gaze from his I slowly turned to look at the mess I had made. Pieces of pancake and egg were lying amid the debris. I knew I had to clean it up before I was punished for my clumsiness but I couldn't seem to move. I started to clean the mess when I felt a hand on my arm. Startled I jumped an my gaze flew to his.
         Reggie knelt next to me an began to pick up the pieces of the shattered plate. I just stared, I had no idea of what game he was playin this time. I didn't for one second think he was doin this out of the goodness of his heart. He had not one ounce of goodness in him.
          He looked over at me an ran a finger very gently down my cheek and said, "Go an get ready for school, sweetheart, I'll take care of this."
          I didn't know what to do. I knew I should move before I was punsished. I slowly stood, my legs barely able to support me they were trembling so badly. I also knew that there would be some kind of payment for this "favor" he was doing for me. Nothing in life is ever free, especially in that house. Another lesson early learned. In the days that followed I wondered if I'd ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again.
          I noticed gradually that if I didn't shrug off Reggie's touch when my mother would tell him to punish me he would pull his punches. And in return all I had to do was let him brush his fingers over my nipples or glide his hand across my ass for as long as he desired, whenever he desired. Fair trade? My self respect and dignity for a few less bruises? A few less welts? No more black eyes or split lips? At the time? I would say it was. I had come to look at my body as a commodity. Nothing more than a bargaining chip. It now worked on the barter system. It was a severely flawed system.
          I began to withdraw from everyone, including myself. Hiding inside my shell of numbness I let the world go on around me.