The Whole Sordid Story - My Life From The Day I Died Until I Was Born

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
Catharsis, is an anthology of short stories, flash fiction and prose I have written about surviving incest. The women portrayed here are all based on people I met during my time running an organization for survivors. The names have been changed to protect those who have been victimized enough, but the stories you find, are very real.

Submitted: August 26, 2014

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Submitted: August 26, 2014

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The Whole Sordid Tale – My Life From The Day I Died Until I Was Born

 

I am told, though I do not remember it, that I was happy, rambunctious toddler, with a mischievous grin and an open, trusting nature. I was the beloved treasured darling of a huge, loving family and I had not a care in the world. Then I turned three and my mother remarried and I went from an open, trusting toddler to a quiet, wary one. When my family asked what was wrong, I would say that nothing was and I had never lied to them, so, they believed me. The truth is something was very wrong. My mother’s new husband had two faces and I was the only one who could see them.

 

They married in September of 1971 and by October he was beating me. He called them spankings, he told my mother that if she had done a better job with me then I wouldn’t be so wild and I wouldn’t need the spankings. He told me to hide the marks when we went out or were around my family or he would hurt my mother like he hurt me. He would say the most horrible things to my mother and even though I was only three, I knew that they were mean. My mother slowly, but surely started to go away inside herself and she seemed not to see me anymore.

 

Then on a rainy Tuesday night shortly after I turned four in November, as I lay in my bed listening to the sound of the rain and the ghosts that lived in my closets, the door quietly slid open and the monster crept in. I tried to make myself invisible or to shrink away as he closed the door without making a sound. When he turned, I started to cry silently, because that was the look he always had when he hit. He slipped across the room and leaned down over my face and whispered, “If you make any noise I will make you watch me kill your Mommy and then I will kill you. Nod your head if you understand.” I nodded, I knew with all the certainty of the trapped that death was in his eyes.

 

He pulled a blanket out of my closet and spread it on the floor, I had never seen the blanket before, it was pretty with pictures of a little girl picking flowers. He whispered, “Take off your nightgown and panties and then lie down on the blanket.”

 

I did as I was told. I didn’t want to watch my Mommy die. I took off the nightgown with the pink flowers and my pink panties and I laid down on the blanket. I watched him like a deer caught in headlights, as he took off his pajama bottoms and sat down on the blanket beside me. He leaned over me, so all I could see was his eyes, he smiled the smile he saved just for me and then he pushed my legs apart. I bit down on the blanket to keep from making noise as he pushed his fingers inside of me. I started to cry as his smile got bigger. Then he took his fingers out and I started to sit up, he pushed me back down and slapped me. “Did I say you could move?” He whispered. I laid back down and shook my head, “No.”

 

He whispered for me to turn over and I did it, I was so afraid and I hurt, I just wanted him to leave. He moved around behind me, I couldn’t see him, I was afraid to look. I wondered, “Is this what dying feels like?” Then he was back and after he sat down straddling me, he pushed his fingers into my bottom, into the place where I went to the bathroom from. It hurt, but not as bad as the other had because his fingers were slippery. Then he stopped, this time I didn’t move, if he had to tell me twice he always hit harder the second time. I could feel him touching me on my bottom and it felt funny and then he seemed to be surrounding me, there was nowhere to look where he wasn’t. Then it started hurting again, worse than before and he was making a funny grunting noise. It burned as whatever he was pushing into me went further and further in. I bit my arm hard to keep from crying out loud, it hurt and I wanted him to stop. He kept grunting and I could feel whatever it was moving back and forth inside me. The stinging got worse, and the pain got worse and worse. He was making a funny noise and he was pushing harder. I could taste the blood from my arm in my mouth and my stomach hurt.

 

Then it was morning, I was alone in my room, in my bed with my teddy bear and the sun was shining. I thought it was a bad dream and then I tried to get out of bed. I started to cry, it wasn’t a bad dream. He came in and took me to the bathroom, he made me get in the tub and he made me wash myself. Blood came off in the water. I asked him if I was going to die. He laughed and said, “Only if you tell your Mommy or Grandmommy or your aunts and so will they.”

 

I don’t remember how he hid what he did from everyone else, I just remember sitting down slowly and being terrified that my Mommy would find out and he would kill her. I know it was a while before he snuck into my room and we switched sides. My memory, which is still protecting me, doesn’t really remember the first time he raped me or how my mother dealt with what she couldn’t help but notice. In fact most of the times he raped me up until I was ten are a blur of pain, shame and fear. The beatings continued and so did the emotional torture. Around nine or so I went to war with him and refused to cry, which only made him hurt me more, which made me more determined to show him nothing, which made him hurt me more, etc. This became how I lived my life for the next year and half.

 

Then one night when I was ten, he cut himself and made me drink the blood, while he was raping me. He had been whispering in my ear for the last year and a half that he had finally found his disciple, that I was as much a monster as he was and how proud he was of me. When he was finished he went back to his room and I could hear him with my mother. I waited until it got quiet and I snuck down the hall and got the butcher knife out of the drawer where my mother kept it in her tidy, sunny kitchen. I snuck back down the hall and into their room, I smiled, because he was always bragging about how he was a green beret and he would wake up at any noise and he didn’t even feel me standing over him. I stared down at him and I stopped smiling, I just watched his chest rising and falling and dreamt of the feeling of the knife sliding into him, of what he would sound like as he died. Then I raised the knife and started to plunge it into him, but I stopped about an inch from his steadily rising and falling chest. I started to shake and I screamed in rage because I couldn’t kill him, and now he would kill my mother and me and no one would ever know what he’d done.

The scream woke both of my parents. He knocked the knife out of my hand and smiled at me, he look so proud. I spat in his face and he backhanded me. But I didn’t let it move me and I didn’t look away. His smile got bigger and then my mother pulled me away and took me back down the hall and tucked me in. Like I had had a bad dream not tried to kill her husband and my father. She brushed my hair and turned on my nightlight, which he always turned out when he came to visit, and then she went back to bed. I lay there waiting for him to come and kill me, he never came. I snuck back down the hall and went into the bathroom and took out the sinus medication that was in the medicine cabinet and took several of them. Then I went back to my room and lay back on the pillow and waited to be free. When I woke up the next morning, the sun was shining and the birds were singing, and the world was just as I had left it. I sighed and went to get dressed.

 

It was a Saturday and my mother was gone to run errands by the time I walked into the kitchen. He smiled his smile and sat my breakfast in front of me and then laughed when I smelled it and waited for him to eat some of his before I would eat. He offered to pour me some juice and then he laughed when I said I would get us both some. Then I waited for him to take a sip before I took a sip. Then calmly over our breakfast, he asked me why I had stopped the night before, why didn’t I kill him?  I glared at him and said through clenched teeth, “I am not you.”

 

“Yes, yes you are. Out of all the children I tortured and killed in Vietnam and before then, you are the only one who I didn’t break, who hated me enough to fight back, who met my torture with hate and not fear. That is why I will let live. I will keep twisting you and then one day you will be the master and not the pupil. You are the only person I have ever met who has a potential to be as evil as I am, to be as good at it as I am.”

 

I ate my breakfast and didn’t look at him anymore, I didn’t want it and my stomach hurt. “What if he was right? What if I was a monster too?” Good people like my Grandmommy and my aunts didn’t try to kill people, they wouldn’t hate him like I hated him.

 

My mother never mentioned what happened that night. A few days later I got to talk to a doctor who wanted to know why I was angry and why I would want to hurt my father. I spent a lot of time staring at him like he wasn’t there and after awhile, he told my mother that he couldn’t treat me anymore.

 

One of the things that made it possible for me to endure my life was getting to spend the weekends with my Grandmommy and my youngest aunt. I was careful to make sure that they never saw any bruises or I knew he wouldn’t let me come back. I put all the life that was left inside me into the two days I was with them. I played and ate popsicles and caught bees and was a normal, happy kid. That made it possible to make it through the days at home. Sometimes, he would create reasons that my mother bought why I couldn’t go for the weekend, just to hurt me. Sometimes, he would make sure that he hurt me really bad on Thursday, so, I would remember him all weekend.

 

Then shortly after I tried to end the nightmare, my parents announced they were moving away from my Grandmommy, far away, they were moving to another state and it would take two hours by plane or 12 hours by car for me to get to Grandmommy. I threw a fit, I begged my mother to let me stay with my Grandmommy, I stopped eating and I was mean and vindictive to her. Yet Easter came and away we went. I was in another state, surrounded by strangers, miles away from the only happy place I had ever known, so, I withdrew. I spent all my time when I wasn’t in school in my room reading and dreaming about being some place else. And every night the monster crept down the hall and dreamed up increasingly perverse ways to create another monster. By the time I was 15, I had a television in my room, with cable and was encouraged by my mother to stay in my room. I hated her and it was obvious, so, it was easier for her to not have to see me.

 

One day, when I was 15, they interrupted my television watching to tell me that they were getting a divorce. My response was, “ It’s about time. Who am I living with?”

 

My mother told me I would be living with her but my father and I would still get to see each other on the weekends. I remember thinking, “How ironic, I will be spending the weekends in Hell.” This wasn’t lost on the monster either, when I looked at him, he was smiling.

 

Our weekends together were a study in depravity and one upmanship. He pulled every trick he knew out of his sleeve and I refused to respond. And then one horrible Sunday, my body betrayed me, it got all warm and tingly and the next thing I knew it was throbbing and I was actually looking forward to what was coming next. I refused to let him see that I was the least bit bothered by this and for the first time I participated willingly. I dished out some pain and I enjoyed his cries.

 

When I went home the apartment was dark and I was all alone and what I had done hit me hard. I sat down in front of the door and just started crying. When there were no more tears, I got up and went to get a soda. There was a note from my mother that she wouldn’t be back until Tuesday and she had left me money. I could stay there or I could go to my best friend’s or back over to my father’s house. I stood there holding the note and I realized she could care less where I went and my Grandmommy and my family where a million miles away, even though I had an aunt that lived in the same town, I was a million miles away from them. I was a monster who thrived on hurting others and I had no place in their world. I tried to feel sad, I tried to cry, I tried my old friend rage and nothing. I felt absolutely nothing, except the need to not be anymore. I just wanted to stop. I walked into my room and picked up my protractor and then I called my best friend and told her I was sorry, but I just couldn’t anymore. Then I went into the bathroom so I wouldn’t make a mess and I took the protractor and I stabbed it into my wrist and pulled down. Then I stabbed the other wrist and I must have stabbed crookedly because it hurt way more than the first, so I stopped and then I sat down and waited. I remember I felt nauseous and I made sure that I didn’t drip on my mother’s clean floor and turned myself around to throw up.

 

The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital, my best friend was in the room crying. I screamed in rage, my rage was back and yelled at her to get out. I was furious, she had stopped me from escaping him and myself. She left and he came in. His smile was so malicious it was painful to look at. He told me that I hadn’t managed to do any serious damage and that he had convinced them to let me go home with him. I knew he had to have had someone he was screwing on the hospital staff for me to evade the mandatory 10 day stay after a suicide attempt. But I went home with him and when my mother came home on Wednesday, not Tuesday like the note had said, I pretended that nothing had happened and so did he.

 

She eventually moved to another state and I chose to stay with the monster because by then I believed it was where I belonged. The depravity was consensual and a contest to see who could be more evil. I used the fact that if I told he would go to prison to secure whatever my little teenage heart wanted. He kept waiting for me to say uncle, to say I couldn’t take it, that it hurt too much, that I wouldn’t do. I wouldn’t say it. He filmed us one night and sent it off to his equally sick friends. I looked right into the camera and made sure my eyes showed nothing. He praised me for the ability to have completely dead eyes, he said it was something he had never mastered. No matter what he tried there was always a hint of malice or joy in his eyes. I reveled in the fact that I could be more of a monster than he in even that small way. I had forgotten that I didn’t want to be like him and worked hard at being worse than him.

 

He kicked me out when I was almost 18, and then he would call me and want to spend time with me. I would go and make sure that he paid for his time. This went on for almost a year, then one day I decided I had had enough of him, I told him so. He backed me into a corner in the kitchen and I picked up the first thing that was handy, an electric skillet, and I swung at him with all my might. I laughed at the shock on his face and then I noticed the smile as he went down. It made me volcanically angry, I kept hitting him with skillet over and over again until his laughter turned to coughs and whimpers. Then I tossed the skillet into the living room, leaned over him like he had leaned over me that long ago night and smiled with the dead eyes he admired. I saw the glee turn to fear.

 

“You wanted me to become the master, well I have. If you come near me or my family or my friends, I will kill you.” I looked at him long enough to make sure he knew I was serious and then I walked out the door and I haven’t spoken to him since. I saw him once and as I started towards him to kill him, my best friend’s little girl’s voice broke through the rage and the terror in it stopped me. When I looked back he was gone.

 

 

 

I rode the wave of being more evil than the worst evil I had ever met, then I started to hate myself for letting him win. There were several more suicide attempts, each as successful as the first two had been. An abusive boyfriend, who almost killed me, and a failed attempt at college.

 

There were a couple of films, mock snuff films, in which I was horribly slaughtered. There was a never ending supply of drugs and alcohol, in fact, I climbed into a bottle for several years, I let the smooth, hot feel of tequila cushion the blows of life. I found myself with rent to pay and the inability to stay sober long enough to hold down a real job, so, I did what I felt was my best skill and had sex for money. I was amazed, I laid on my back or whatever position he wanted me in, gave up an hour of my time and had $100 bucks. I did it 6 more times and I had money for the rent and money for groceries, more importantly I had money for tequila. I had found my new career.

 

It wasn’t long before I found out I could make more money if I was willing to take more pain. I knew all about taking pain and turning it into pleasure, I found a new clientele and the money was great. I had a nice apartment with maid service and all it cost me was a little time letting some freak live out their fantasy of hurting a woman. The more they slapped and bit, the more money I got. The longer I let them cut off my air supply the more money I got. The more of their friends I took on at once, the more money I got. I had tequila, I had a roof over my head, I had regular sex, I was happier than I could remember being. It took waking up in my car, redressed, in the passenger’s seat, someplace I didn’t recognize, sore and bloody, for me to see the error of my ways. I stopped drinking.

 

I got deeper into the underbelly of the sex-for-money world and had a few run ins with drug dealers, got shot at, and watch someone get shot in the head for stealing from the drug dealers. I watched my only friend through all of this slowly kill himself with drugs and steal from the people who we had watched kill someone for stealing. I took what savings I had and used it to buy him his life. He stole some more. I got picked up and questioned, painfully about where the money or the drugs where, neither of which I knew. They mistakenly figured no one could take that much pain and not tell them what they wanted to know, wrong, I knew. They gang raped me and took me home. He called later that night bombed out of his mind and I told him I was leaving, I couldn’t watch him die.

 

I moved to the state where my mom lived and a month later I got a call, he had overdosed. I knew they had killed him and I knew if I had stayed I would be just as dead. It was the wake up call all the other stuff had not been. I got a good job, stayed sober and tried for the first time in my adult life to actually live and not die. I stumbled many times over the next ten years, tried to kill myself a few more times, ended up hospitalized twice and then I finally started dealing with that night when I was four. I told my family, they believed me without question. I told my mother and she had repressed as much as I had. We go to therapy together to help her cope. I decided that I had a right to life and I started taking steps to ensure that I would have a full and happy one. I found a place inside that me nor he had damaged and I spend time everyday making it grow and heal the scars of who I had let us make me. Now the smile brightens my eyes and I don’t hate myself anymore.

by Tanya R. Simon, 2006, All Rights Reserved.

 


© Copyright 2020 theroseknows. All rights reserved.

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