Child Abuse Story From Jacob
by Jacob
(Virginia, USA)
WARNING: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE DEPICTED:
My dad hit me and told things that put me down, everyday. Now, I'm fifteen. He's been abusing me ever since I entered preschool. My mom never knew about it, my older brother didn't believe me, and my sister just laughed when I told her. Yes, I'm a sophomore in high school, so I always thought telling someone would be childish and pointless... but until now, I've been hiding my story...
I'm scared of him. The man that comes in through the front door at 3:00 PM everyday, in a suit with his tie properly in place. Everyone looked up to him- respected him. He was the 'ideal' father, that everyone loved. He was a psychologist, which was pretty ironic. His eyes were as cold as ice, and his hands three times bigger than mine. I always had small hands. Sometimes, when I see him, my whole entire body just starts trembling and shivering. I can't even lay my eyes off him, or move from a place. He would walk down the main hallway, and into the living room where I usually am doing my homework.
When my mom isn't home and when my siblings were at tutoring, he would always hit me. When he knows I get anything under 95% on something, he hits me. When I don't do something right, he hits me. When he's mad or upset, he hits me. And the times where I don't get all A's in school, he beats me to no end. There were bruises, scratches and scars all over my body. I'm always too scared to change in the guy's locker room at school, so I got excused from gym. I never wore shorts or short sleeves or flip flops, because my arms, legs, and feet would be covered in 'violence.' Yesterday, was the day I couldn't handle it anymore.
He came in, his feet stomping on the ground, shoving a piece of paper into my face. My father asked what that was, and I took the paper and read it. When I was halfway done, my eyes widened and my mouth was agape. My heart was beating so fast- yet dying at the same time. Sweat was starting to form on my forehead. I looked up at him, with hopelessness and fear. My hands trembled, and I dropped the paper. He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and raised me into the air, my toes barely touching the floor. His mouth was wide and open, spit flying out. I didn't hear any words, because all I could think of was the pain that I would feel any moment soon. He shook me violently, my neck cracking and his nails in my skin. Throwing me onto the floor, he fiercely walked to the kitchen, and pulled out a wooden baseball bat from behind the fridge. I stared at it, my eyes beginning to water and burn. I had to run. My legs twitched, and I stood up, walking backwards until my back hit the wall. My father stepped closer and closer to me, his fist clenching the bat. I got onto my knees, and begged him for forgiveness. I didn't want him to hit me. Not again. Tears left my eyes like water breaking open a dam. My words were trailing off into 'Don't do this' and 'Don't hit me.' My hands covered my head- it was an instinct. I could hear the sound of the bat being raised quickly into the air, and I braced myself. The burning sensation of the bat pounding onto my back made me fall flat onto the ground, and I cried out. He kept on hitting me, stronger and with more force after every strike. The pain slowly grew into numbness, and soon, he stopped. My father dropped the bat onto the ground, his breathing heavy and fast. My crying and whimpering deafened me, as I could only make out the 'idiot,' 'useless,' and 'dumbf**k's that he yelled out. My back was tingling and aching, my body sore and stinging. He told me to stand up, so I did, not looking at his face. His hand slapped my right cheek and I stumbled over my steps, banging my waist onto the corner of the computer desk. I crouched over in pain, and my father punched me in the face and stomach. I tumbled over and laid on the ground, coughing and unable to move. My body was still trembling. Blood left from my mouth and onto the floor, which I had to clean up later. Content with his punishment, he yelled out something once more, and walked out of the living room, leaving me alone in pain.
This would happen to me every week, at worse three times a week. My fear and weakness drove me to become a mouse, and he was a tiger. The beatings he would give me, I never understood what they meant or why he did them. But today, I'm telling someone my life, my pain and the only thing I am afraid of. My father. Thank you for reading this. It feels good to 'tell' someone. Tomorrow I'm going to tell the police. I'm going to be free from his little leash that pulled me toward his abuse.
Note from Darlene: If I have not left a comment on your story, please understand that it is not personal; it's just that my hectic schedule no longer permits me to do so.I hope you'll 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.
