Child Abuse Story From Name Undisclosed6
by Name Undisclosed
(Location Undisclosed)
Weakness:
School was out and it was the middle of summer; we were playing outside in the backyard, some game my older sister made up to keep us busy and safely out of her hair. She opened the door like she didn't see us back there and called out to us, each by our formal name. She always did that when she wanted us inside for whatever reason. To us it sounded like showing off to the neighbors, trying to sound all loving and kind and good. I knew she was mad when she called for us, I could hear the edginess in her voice. Each name was sharp in front, biting its way in. The calling could have been for warm cookies and Kool-Aid, bath time or like this occasion, trouble; we never knew what to expect, just always knew when it was gonna be bad.
We marched into the house single file; me in front of my little brother, protecting him, my sister in front of me, protecting us both. My sister had her chin in the usual position, up and out, mouth set tight and ready to fight her, the mother bear protecting her cubs. I was terrified, walking through the thick mire of dread, trying hard to push myself through the doorway, and needing to stand beside my sister. I could feel the vibration of her rage in my chest and smell her sickness, like the raunchy, stale smell of her bourbon breath in the morning. My brother followed last, always. We made him. His face was full of concern and curiosity and love, saying, What's the matter?, thinking we could just talk it out, always the innocent one, so serious and full of hope for things just to end up okay; and they did, sort of.
In the kitchen she made us stand in the middle of the room side by side, facing the wall with our backs to her. We were staring at a swing door, teasing, leading into the dining room, through the living room and out the front door in five seconds or less, gunnin' without the courage. She was leaning against the counter, by the sink, with her arms crossed and a wooden spoon in one hand. Her eyes were black as coal and empty, not like they could've been; warm brown eyes. She ordered us to drop our pants and underwear to around our ankles. My mind went crazy, like Fourth of July, thoughts screaming through my brain. What now? What is she going to do to us? What did we do?
She said, "One of you little pigs took a crap in the toilet and didn't flush! I am sick of you three and your messes. I am going to find out who did this! Bend over and spread your cheeks!"I was mortified and angry, my eyes wide open; waves of white noise, thunderous inside my skull, pressure. We were weeping quietly. "Shut up or I'll really give you something to cry about." I knew my brother was the culprit; he was always doing these passive aggressive things, or maybe just little boy things; putting boogers on her towel, or on the walls by the toilet, not flushing the toilet. I hated him so much at that moment, for not being smart enough to stay under the radar, to keep us safe from her; the three of us standing there all spread apart, her hands on us, all fingers and thumbs.
I looked over at him, hating and blaming him, my little brother. I loved him so much it squeezed my heart, like I didn't have room enough in my chest to fit it all. I loved the way he smelled; like scrambled eggs and Frito's and warm sweat, the little boy smell. I loved his tan skin in the summer, his cute blond head and his stubby fingers. I loved to watch him move around his days, full of wonder and curiosity and I loved to watch him walk, that little strut, the cool cat. Leroy Brown. I loved his innocence, the little man, so gentle and beautiful.
Seconds before it passed, his eyes met mine and registered my fury. His face crumpled up, startled like I'd slapped him. Staring in my eyes, trying to find me, he started to cry out loud, the pain on his face so deep and raw. It hurt him down in that place you never knew existed. Nothing she could do could hurt him like this, could hurt me like this. My heart shattered like a vase slipping through my hands to the floor. I loved him so much. Misguided anger, set on top of my brother like a bag of wet cement, as he was bent over and spread apart. My life with my brother, my friend, was changed forever, would never be the same.
Out of the corner of my eye, to my right and above my head, I saw her arm extended, with her hand clutching the wooden spoon. She was at the top of her swing, pausing to draw into her lungs enough air to last the whole of the beating, she always held her breath, and to generate the power needed for the flood of cracking blows to the back of the legs. She never hit our butts, convinced it would make us sterile, doing us a favor.
She started her flurry on my little brother; the criminal became obvious during her thorough investigation of our most private area. He fell to the floor on his back, trying to protect himself as she swung at him, only pausing to roll him over. My sister and I ran to him and crouched down beside her, crying for her to stop, waving our hands over his little legs, taking blows to our hands and arms. One swing cracked my sister in the head with a loud hollow pop. The frenzy lasted fifteen or twenty seconds at most. Time stopped for us, it could have been hours.
She finally tired-out, and panting, lay down on the kitchen floor to cry. I don't think she meant to get angry like that; sometimes she just slipped through herself too fast and got too close to the edge, too close to those hands that would pull her in and throw her around like a ragdoll. After awhile she'd get tossed out all exhausted and crying.
The three of us were standing there sniffling quietly, trying to catch our breath and holding on to each other. She was crying; we felt the power and the sadness of her, not able to leave her on the kitchen floor, needing so much to lie beside her and comfort her, to console her and love her and try to fix her, to make her loving again and happy and wanting to be with us. We started toward her, to give her the good parts of us. She shouted violently, "Just leave! Get the hell out of here! Go to your rooms and don't come down!" Salt in the gaping wound. We ran upstairs and put my little brother in our bed, in the middle, and held each others pain, weeping quietly until we fell asleep.
After awhile, the heavy, agonizing physical memory of that day started to fade. My brother lost the light in his eyes, and his expression changed from wonder and concern to just "Why?"quickly searching faces then dropping his eyes to the ground. His vibration was an aching, lonely, on-the-verge-of-tears kind of pain, or maybe it was my sister's, or mine. He became solemn and withdrawn and spent most of his time alone or with my sister, our bond was left broken on the floor of the kitchen.
I was her replica that day, her co-pilot gunner, her V.P., taking little parts of the people we loved; crushing them to bits and shoving them back in, unrecognizable and un-repairable, changing them forever. I love him so much; my little brother, the cool cat, and I miss him terribly.
More than thirty years have passed since that summer afternoon in the kitchen. The three of us together can talk about everything under the sun, but always walk the long way around that day, never getting close enough to say it. We can't. For each of us it represents a loss, a grief so profound to give it words, collectively, would open it up fresh to relive again, the humiliation and shame, and the truth about ourselves and of our mother.
Darlene's comments to this "Child Abuse Story From Name Undisclosed6" can be found at Comments below this submission. Depending on system activity, there are sometimes delays in comments going live on my site; but rest assured, they do eventually appear. So if you don't yet see them, I hope you will return later to read what I, and possibly others, have written. I thank you for your patience and understanding.Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited, and could result in being banned from making further comments on this site.
