The soiled oversized white t-shirt only revealed my ankles and feet. The blood continued to leave a glistening trail down my inner thighs from the sexual torment that had become a ritualistic nightmare which began to define my life. What more could he take that wasn’t already stolen, such as; my innocence or the dreams that I once dared to believe. If only he’d left a shred of dignity perhaps there might have been one ounce left of shame or had I moved beyond that point.
He complained of the discomfort I caused as he bared the weight of my then fifty pound body which he hurled over his shoulder like a neglected sack of laundry ready to be thrown into the bin. I was mystified by his arrogance and bravado as he placed my tired body down on his workspace in the basement of what I thought was my home, yet often reminded it was only his. A visitor, unwanted guest, accident, an abomination, or a selfish, ungrateful child were just a few of the endearing nicknames bestowed upon me over the course of my meager existence.
His voice seemed to amplify through my swollen, throbbing head as he abruptly lifted my face insisting I look up and pay careful attention. He retrieved a nylon rope buried under his array of equipment that he defined as tools and I torture devices. The darkened space illuminated by only a dim, bare bulb hanging above his workshop revealed he was perspiring while he took another long swig of alcohol from its amber colored bottle. Lighting a cigarette and leaving it hang from his oversized, moist lips that always tasted like you had licked something profoundly disturbing and indescribable he began to laugh.
Bilingual could describe his forked tongue. He was well versed in criticism, the language of foul and was a master in mixed messages. Oxymoron perhaps, or was it just an opinion of moron that continually crossed my mind. The religion was a seemingly comfortable blend of what he deemed Satanic Christianity, which I often marveled rhymed or sounded like insanity. In any case, there was a sense of pride at being a priest of his Demonic Coven out in the woods, typically on Friday nights. This sect was defined as the Purple Robes, ironically baring the same purple and black colors worn by priests I’d seen at the church when forced to take or make sacraments.
There was no discrimination on my part towards the Catholic Church, besides when I was able to escape one night and pound on the door of the rectory, only to be dismissed. I was told to go back home and ask God to forgive me for transgressing against my parents and telling lies. I suppose it might come as a shock for a child to show up and plead for help, only I never understood why it was a sin. Another valuable lesson taught to trust no one and say nothing, particularly when they call your father and report the shocking description defined as a disturbance. Whether it was priests, mother, or father; regardless of how it’s used in a sentence, these were the words that I found unsettling and disturbing.
The laughter is probably what kept my focus as he pretended to be a scholar demonstrating how to make proper knots in a rope. I believe we went through at least three trials of slipknot, timber-hitch, and bow knots as he casually described their use; insisting I follow his instruction and repeat the process myself. Weary, my small hands and distracted mind couldn’t quite grasp or master the impromptu course and with each failure was ridiculed and struck. Reminded to pay close attention he cited that he’d left the best for last - the noose. He discussed the significance in relation to eliminating the ability to have proper air flow using only the weight of your own body to complete the process.
Unable to create the tormenting device due to the sheer fright factor, he increasingly became irritated and shared his sentiment of disappointment. He claimed I fell short of his expectations and I wondered if he understood that falling and short were more my personal problems rather than his emotional calamity. With the neck tie finished he casually looped it around my neck and asked that I consider it to be jewelry, or an accessory that matched my unbridled personality.
The sheer delight that animated his facial muscles was astounding as he described the slow process of asphyxiation and certain death. If I weren’t mistaken and entering a semi-catatonic state, I could have sworn he was reacting the way someone might have when describing the excitement over a child’s birthday, or first day of school perhaps. These feelings must have existed in the world or were they only fictional stories told to children to make them think the world was really safe.
Fixated by what he perceived to be his own brilliance in some psychotic manner, he then enraptured a fitting plan advising that I stay put and keep quiet. Funny, I hadn’t uttered a solitary word, as always, the entire evening. Almost strutting, he moved across the dampened cellar with the stained, dirty, and unfinished appearance and reached for an old wooded, semi-broken chair that he claimed used to be accompanied by his school desk back in the day. Memory lane was hardly the walk I was facing as he brimmed over what a much better student he was than I had ever been. I wanted to scream, it’s hard to concentrate when you leave the staples in my genitals from your sadistic torture the evening prior.
Good concentration was hardly a term used when my teachers would meet with my parents to discuss my progress in academics; nor was remarkable, promising, or bright future ahead. Were these people stupid, my future was paved in thumb tacks; not gold, that was, if I lived to endure the welcoming feel of the piercing pain in my feet, rather than the silence of death? Was death preferable to pain and suffering? This questioning was the only aspect left undying. The complaints doled out by the adult teachers that were supposed to be conscious of a student’s well-being, or not, were complacent at best. What would ever make them think there was any sign of trouble at home? I can’t imagine it would be the disheveled appearance, the faraway look on in my eyes, or the fact that I had no social skills and was a complete loner that everyone made a mockery of for certain.
What’s the matter child? Isn’t it obvious you should have contacted the police? Yes, I suppose that’s a blatant assumption, yet an uncle in the family actually held that title. When told in a marginal manner that I was scared and wanted to leave, he barely blinked and suggested I work it out with my parents. Afterwards, when this man reached out to my father the phone was then furiously ripped off the wall. Translation, do not trust adults, authority figures, or even yourself anymore and focus on honing in on the knot lessons.
The chair which held more adornment then I could conceptualize was placed strategically in the center of the room. He retrieved an old rag and some preening oil and began stroking it claiming she’d always been good to him. It began to shine brighter than any hope I’d ever conceived. Coming toward me he mumbled something about my toenails on my cold, bare feet better not scratch the soft, delicate wood of this inanimate object. As far as I could tell, it was getting more consideration and recognition than the being in the room with the pulsing heartbeat.
Looking as if it was an afterthought he dug through oddities leaning against the crumbling cement wall adjacent to the wooded shelf I was perched upon. This was an area where he compiled unfinished projects in ill repair or plywood, corkboard etc. Pulling out a broken full length mirror with a busted wood frame, he paused to take several more swigs of alcohol. He then aligned the mirror and propped it against smelly, dust covered boxed so that it faced the chair.
Vanity was not in my reportage. Frankly, it never entered my thoughts. I suppose if you perceive feelings of self-loathing, angst, despair, and concern for the ability to survive, then, maybe, possibly, I’ll consider the notion. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure who, or what I was, nevertheless what I looked like physically. All I understood was I was marked for Satan. I was told those who bare duel genitals are deemed as a potential sacrifice to the dark side. I’m in and out, don’t really know if I’m coming or going. That’s alright, I don’t remember arriving initially. I must say, it couldn’t have been a good entry point by the looks of the mother. Talk about a dark portal.
Finishing his beverage and checking his watch the dirty man called father abruptly lifted me and placed my feet onto the chair from the hall of fame, or was it shame, not sure? I can remember how slippery it felt against the bottom of feet and I instantly feared sliding off and getting him angry. I stood still like a soldier with my arms placed tightly against my sides like he’d requested. My eyes avoided the mirror at all cost, unwilling to confront my mortality. He brought the noose over and haphazardly threw it over the joist of the floorboards up above. He cussed several times getting aggravated when he tried to determine the distance when measuring the height.
Suddenly the noose was dropped over my head and fastened tightly around my neck. He whispered in my ear to focus for once in my life and pay attention. He sternly insisted I look at myself in the mirror and try to understand what he had to tolerate, and what it looked like from his vantage point as he stood behind me. I gazed up at myself and hardly recognized the broken reflection. He looked painfully familiar with that sarcastic, nasty, critical, smirk upon his face. I stopped staring at him when he scolded me to face myself and not get distracted by his irresistibly, good looks.
I didn’t dare look at his eyes, only myself, me, the shell that housed my soul. This was my mobile home, my shelter from harm, my secret space, my incomprehensible self. Who are you? I heard myself repeat this question several times in an attempt to suddenly reconcile all the pain, hurt, and despair that filled my senses, as I contemplated dying before ever knowing my own truth. I can remember wondering if it would hurt. How long it will take? Will I urinate on his precious chair and potentially be cut into little pieces and buried in the back woods, like he’d threatened so many times before?
I noticed from the corner of my eye he’d unzipped his trousers and was wiggling his uncircumcised penis around while accusing me of sneaking a peak at his projection, which began to rise and inflate. I hated that thing. It was one of the worse weapons he used upon my body, aside from the knives, and the car battery with those cable wires that coursed electricity through my body; sometimes burning my feet, which were now my only saving grace. Feet don’t fail me now I was thinking as he smacked me for some ungodly reason. He was rubbing his member along the sides of my body and then between my buttocks. Strangely, I had become so numb; I really couldn’t feel it any longer.
I spoke with a being higher than myself inside my head and can remember asking for forgiveness. Not really sure why, it seemed like a way to reconcile all I’d seen that in my heart and soul; knew that I shouldn’t have. I called out for my dog to forgive me for putting it to sleep after my father tried to kill it with a shotgun and announced he would no longer buy it food. I called upon the Angel of Mercy to stop my heart and take me before he ended my life. I heard myself crying and could feel tears running down my face. I had already urinated myself, which made me cry even more.
Gradually, I lifted my head after what felt like an endless array of time. I still couldn’t stop crying, yet my eyes were glued shut in fear. I felt like he was waiting for me to open them before he removed the chair, this way I have a fleeting glance at myself swaying in the air before I expired. Finally, I mustered the courage to embrace the inevitable and decided it was best to say goodbye to myself. He was still breathing heavy in my ear with that horrid stale beer smell that I’d grown so accustomed to inhaling. I knew he’d inched the chair away from my feet because I had slid across, and had desperately curled my toes around the edge of the wooden seat; as if it would somehow protect my incomparable, compromising position.
When I opened my eyes he said to my reflection, “Can you see that ugly thing I have to put up with every damn day? When you get as sick of looking at it as I do, go ahead, kick the chair away and do us all a favor.”
Almost instantly I honored his final request and felt an immense burning sensation surge through my entire body. Honestly, I can’t tell you if it was suicide or simply my being obedient or even true to me. Surprised by my sudden reaction and/or response he panicked and managed to untangle the noose from my neck and free the swaying child dangling in the air. To this day, I ask was he really a hero in this story, a coward, or only concerned with getting caught with an assisted suicide, or potential murder charge of a minor.
Ultimately, he set me up for a lifetime of pain and suffering. The abuse continued into my young adult life. He’s dead now and so is my childhood. The memories and all the torture continue to haunt me. I can’t wear anything tight fitting. I always feel an odd sensation to jump when I’m standing near the edge of high places. Did I survive or perpetuate the trauma? Eventually, I re-connected to my Spirit and decided my experience had an intentioned purpose.
It’s become my life’s work to help, console, inspire and align other souls to understand that they too have a purpose. We all deserve to be here with our feet firmly planted on the ground. Peace and Love to all, even those who came here to play out the role of the villain.
