Child Abuse Story From Aly
by Aly
His name was Jeff. He wasn't an alcoholic, drug addict, maniac, or psychologically unstable. He was your average middle class man. The whole community respected him. He was a cop, known for giving the shirt off his back to complete strangers. Little did those strangers know what happened behind the closed doors of his house. Yes, it was his house. A house me and my brother were priveledged to live in. We had to work hard for our keep, nothing was ever just given, especially love. Jeremy was my brother, and it seemed he had to work the hardest of all. My father wanted us to understand that he was boss, tyrant, our last hope of ever becoming anything in this world. My brother accepted that, and so my father made him work harder, because his son was a "hillbilly" and needed to be taught everything the hard way. I never accepted. I had something my father called my "fire". It was his one goal to extinguish it. He used to love using the line "This is a dictatorship, not a democracy." to which I would reply, "All dictatorships end in rebellion." To my father, I was a "great waste of flesh and air." The bruises marked me for what I was, a failure. My father treated us like criminals he would arrest. We did what he said or we were punished. We no longer had rights. My mother was often gone. She would spend the night at hotels or with a friend. When she came home, the pain in her eyes was so terrible that we did not wish to look at her, anymore than she wished to look at us. We were a broken family. The only part that was a whole was me and my brother. I looked out for him, even though I was younger by 2 years. When he gave up, its as if he lost all will to live, all will to avoid the beatings. I always saw them coming, and often tried to say something to distract my father and get me in trouble instead, but it was never enough. My brother suffered the same as or worse than me, and it was my fault. I should have stopped it. I hadn't given up, I could have told someone. When the librarians would ask me where my bruises were from, I should have told them the truth, not that I was a clutz and fell from trees, ran into doors, tripped on stairs, etc. I would get punished for everything I did, he didn't like me singing, he didn't like me playing with toys, didn't like me doing anything but cleaning my room. He once made me and my brother an hour late for school because he refused to let us leave until we cleaned our rooms, which were already spotless. This lasted all my life, until I was 12, and we left, stayed in a shelter for abused women and children, then with my aunt, and then moved around for the next 3 years until we finally found a house. We can't afford much and don't have alot of space, but we are together and we are happy. I'm 15 now and would give anything to go back and change the suffering my brother went through, but in a way, my abuse made me who I am. It shouldn't have ever happened, but because of it, now I know how cruel life can be, but also how beautiful...  Note from Darlene: During the week of February 15 - 21, 2010, I will not be able to comment on story submissions, as I will be attending a conference in Atlanta with only limited online access time.Follow me on:  Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in submissions and visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited. Please don't include them, as they will be removed.
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