Chapter 2 | Enfance

I guess I should start at the beginning. That would be a good idea right?

I actually don't remember a lot about my childhood. I was hit in the head a lot. You'll understand that statement soon enough.

The way to describe the birth of a child is usually euphoric or ridiculously happy. That wasn't how my birth was. My father hackled my mother her entire pregnancy. He constantly accused her of cheating on him, he claimed that I "that thing" he so sweetly put it, was no way his child. He never cared for me. I've had people pull the psychiatrist bullshit, the whole "he does love you, he just doesn't know how to express it" speech. Do they honestly think I fucking believe that? I don't. Not for a second.

My mother went through the torture of a "natural" childbirth with me. My father never even came to the fucking hospital. Motherfucker. My mom called him that night to tell him his spawn had been delivered. Stupid prick was drunk. He screamed all kinds of shit at her. He said he knew I wasn't his kid and didn't plan on ever taking care of me. Son of a bitch. I hate him.

My father made good on his promise. He never took care of me. Well, not in the way you think.

I was three the first time it happened. I was pushing my stupid toy kitchen around, I wasn't doing anything wrong.

My father had a lot to drink that day. Fucking vodka.

I wasn't even being that loud. I heard his heavy footsteps before I felt his rough hands close around my arm. I looked up at him and knew this was going to be bad. He face was all red, and he had this vein popping out of his neck. He looked like a damn bull ready to charge.

I hate bulls.

He started to pull me down the hallway, and because I was so small I couldn't keep up. I fell down. Then he was dragging me by what little hair I had. I finally felt carpet beneath my hands. I thought I was safe.

I wasn't.

The first kick hurt the worst. By the seventeenth kick, I was numb. I stopped counting after twenty.

Counting never helps. Never listen to whoever tells you it does. They're liars.

I remember looking at my stomach and seeing the purple and blue splotches. I never noticed, but my mother never asked me how I got those bruises. I had a feeling she didn't want to know. Or maybe she just didn't care. I wanted to think she did.

I never cried after that. Every time he hit me, I never cried in front of him. Sometimes I think he hit me harder just to see my cry. But I wouldn't let him see me as weak. I couldn't be weak and live in that place. It wasn't an option.

I know you're wondering, and no, my mother never asked. She never asked about the bruises. She never asked about my busted lip. She never asked about my black eye. She never asked about the blood dripping from my hair.

She would just stare at me with this blank look in her eyes. Almost as if she couldn't see me. I'm pretty sure she couldn't.

I'll never know why my mother never said anything. I'll never know why she wouldn't help my rinse the blood from my body when she gave me my bath. I'll never be able to ask her when she started getting bruises too.

You would have thought my teachers would have asked me if something was happening to me at home.

They didn't.

That's when the first seed of doubt was placed in my mind.

I started to doubt a lot of things after that. I started to doubt my ability in everything I did.

I still doubt things to this day. Always will.

I wish I could tell you that the abuse stopped at some point. I wish I could tell you that my parents were cured of their drug addiction. I wish I could tell you that I see my mother every once in a while. I wish I could tell that I'm better now.

But, I can't. And that kills me.

He never hit my sister. Ever.

I mean, I didn't want him to. But I always wondered why he didn't.

She would just sit in the corner and watch. She would watch him beat me to death. She never said a word either. My own fucking sister. She wouldn't help me.

I would have helped her. In a heartbeat. But I always seemed to care about them more than they cared about me.

What a wonderful family I have right? Fucking despicable.

He would walk over to her after he would leave me, and he would stroke her hair like she was a dog.

I didn't know that he raped my sister two years later. If I did, I would have fucking killed him.

I'll never understand my father. He was the most complicated person I've ever known. I don't know many people. So, maybe I can't judge that. Like I fucking care.

People avoid me at all cost mostly. For good reason. I'm toxic. I destroy everything I touch.

Tom is all I have nowadays. Even he hates me sometimes. I don't blame him, I'd fucking hate me too. Oh, wait. I already do.

A lot has changed over the years. I can take a bath in a bathtub and not hyperventilate now. I can hold a guy's hand without flinching away from them. I can look at a bottle of pills and not want to throw them down my throat.

That may not seem like an improvement to you. But it is to me.

I'm messed up; I think we've established this already.

The beating thing isn't the worst thing that's happened to me.

Surprised?

You shouldn't be.