24

Summer




1984



I don't know what was worse for me, my cousins putting fireworks down my pants, beating me up when they cornered me down the long winding road from my parent's house or if being raped by another cousin took that cake.. I didn't really feel safe anymore, anywhere. My daddy yelled at me and beat my ass with a belt. He said that good girls were made by ass whippings. I don't think that should have been true.



Moma was quiet, she was always quiet as will be stated before this in many tales to come of what has already occured. My mother was special and all will see the degree in which I speak of. She would mostly do as father said and always with a yes sir, yes hun or similar submissive response...if any. Mom worked...she worked day in and day out and made sure we were all fed real good. Then she cleaned and tried to watch some television whenever she got away with it.



And there was my brother. My brother protected me from most things that he could see but death and similar demons alluded him somehow. I knew he must have been lost in his own little world and didn't see the tortures in mine. But every chance I got, I would run and hide behind him...of course, that is when I wasn't being his demon. When I wasn't taking out my frustrations of being abused on him somehow. Ultimately, I was beaten in some form or fashion most every day...things seemed to turn numb by the time the sun set...or by the time that daddy's belt had worn out.



Fall of 1984



I was 10 and I had realized that George shouldn't be touching me. I was scared and did not know how to make him stop. I knew that if I told someone then I would be in big trouble. After all, George was powerful to me, as powerful as death could be and we all know how powerful death is. Why death? Because death takes and takes and takes and it never really gives anything but regret, remorse and remembrance. I regret it, I am sad and I will never forget it again. Hordes of 'do gooders', they opened this can of worms.



Winter



1984



I broke his glasses today. I told him no and he just kept creeping up beside me and his hands would always end up in my pants. I would stand in the kitchen and then all of a sudden I could feel something behind me, breathing so close to the surface of my hair. I turned and saw death standing there before me looking down and smiling this disgusting snuff filled grin. I froze and let its hand rove across my breasts and down my tummy. I remember that I looked to my right and saw knives and I looked to my left and saw pans and I knew that I was more kind to death than most. I felt the anger rise up, the guilt and I couldn't contain the force of the beast inside.



I don't remember as with most blind rage episodes that I have...I cannot remember. I just remember him sitting on the floor and giving me the meanest look. I remember spit stains on the linoleum and his broken glasses, shards smeared with his disgusting spew, lying helpless in his hands. I heard him speak before running away...something about the fact that I had made a mistake.



I don't fucking care what i should be afraid of anymore, I wanted it to stop.