Author's Note: This article portrays my view on Domestic Abuse. It is based on my own personal experience. I do not mean to be politically correct; I just wish to tell a story. Because of this article's premises, I declare it for "Mature Audiences only" and any young children should contact their parents and have them read it over before you. Now on with the article . . .
I sit under my covers, a young girl of just 6. I know more of the horrors of humans than normal 6 years olds do; more than they should. Every night they yell; I still cower; yet is the sound that is most familiar to me. I know the feeling I am most familiar with. Deep, searing pain. The kind that brings forth tears; tears you cannot express for fear of more. I know the marks that are most familiar. Most 6 year olds might say marker in their hands; dirt on their knees. Me, well I say deep bluish-black marks. These are the silent cries. The cries that I must never show anyone. He will get me.
Welcome to the world of Domestic Abuse.
This man, He hurts me. Well you say, let him leave; run away! I cannot, I am trapped. By who? The person who is supposed to have unconditional love. Instead, he has unconditional punches. Now, years later people tell me, "A Dad takes care of you; loves you. A Father is only the man the created you." This is my mantra; I keep it close to my heart.
He leaves his bottles around the dingy apartment; a waste of our world. His life built on this sole pleasure; as well as taking my dreams and my mom's as well. She works so late. I fear for myself when she is gone; fear for both when she is here. The drink that is always drinks; they bring this upon us, taking away my mom's hard-earned money; only to torture her with it.
He crawls up the stairs one night; I know that he has drunk. You could smell the potent scent for miles. And I know. It is time.
"Mom" My mind cries out. Where is she? My mind races. I can't find. I sure can't call for her. And now I have this strange feeling. It's going to be different this time.
The police tell me "He was drunk." I had no sense of what drunk was, but I knew its affects. My grandma is now there. She will take care of me until Mom is better. He is going to jail. Even my 6 year old self won't miss him.
That night, in the darkness he came to her room. I had hid in the closet deep beneath. Under clothes. I could barely breathe; but I would do anything, anything to escape his wrath. I did not know, but my mom was sleeping on the bed. Still sleeping when he came in. It could have been a fatal move.
He comes in. I hear him. I know he will not come for me; I don't know why, I feel safe. I her him yell my mom's name. He picks up a candle holder. He raises it above his head. I want to cry out "MOM!" But my tongue is disobeying my orders. "NO!" Is all I can think.
He swung. He had hit her only on the hip, he was so intoxicated. I can look at that night's photocopied doctor's forms now. They lie in a box, lined with purple velvet. It is in a case. The files seem so impersonal. They just say "blunt object to hip bone" or something of a similar nature. I think, "How can they just stand there? Why don't you DO something?"
He almost got away that time. He almost got lucky. He could have gone and found another woman and taken everything. Her love, her dignity, her dreams, her purity. But he couldn't. Because he lost this time. He finally lost. After 5 years of perfecting his art, he had finally failed. He served time at the county prison. Now he is with another woman. I wish she could have known. Because I know. She will have the same marks, those of my father, the monster.
I will never erase the image of my mom lying helpless on the ground from my mind. It was her greatest moment of pain. I could do nothing. I was only a little girl. I know who could have helped it. He could. But instead of helping, he decided to bring the greatest pain to his family; people you are supposed to treasure above all else. He failed us. He brought the scars. They are still there. Mine resides in my heart and on the right side of my left arm. 3 small marks; reminders of the past.
He still affects my life. It has been years since I have seen or talk to him. I refuse to. What is hardest to digest is he only got a year. Only a year for the 5 years of pain he caused directly, another 90 more for the affect it bears.
This is what happens when you drink. When you abuse. When you become a monster.
Another Author's Note: I am sorry to anyone I have offended by my opinions or experiences. I would like to hear any stories you can tell me as well. It is okay if you can't it has taken me years to write this; to man up to it; to relive it. It still gets to me. Tears stream down my face. I would also like to inform you that my mom did not actually stay in the emergency room for more than a day. She was out and much unharmed, minus a small crack in her bone. The doctor records are not really there; it was an illustration to add to the elements of the story. I did see them, a long time ago; but my mom told me the cause on the record. (This explains why it does not sound scientific). Again, sorry for all those offended in advance. Post your thoughts in the BBS, and I will explain my opinion.
Lyd1212, Saying don't let yourself become the monster. *BAM*
