LJ Idol Season 8, Week 19, et tu, brute?
I am hiding in the closet. I can hear the screaming and the pleading through the open bedroom door. This time, my older brother is in the closet with me, even though he is big and there isn’t enough room for both of us. He tells me that he is going to peak out and I grab at his arm. He pries my delicate fingers off his wrist and darts out the closet door in a hurry. I can hear the bedroom window opening. He must have climbed onto my bed to open it.
He comes back and tells me to hurry. My small hand fits into his larger one and I follow him out of our hiding place, trembling and terrified. We climb onto the bed to reach the window. He whispers in my ear that I have to jump but it won’t be far. Wanting nothing more than to avoid the yelling, and the gun that my father is threatening all of us with, I jump out the window though I am unable to see where the ground is. I am only about seven-years-old so it’s still quite a drop for me. I land on my feet on the hard concrete. I am not wearing shoes.
My brother follows me out and we run across the yard where he gives me a boost to climb the six foot wooden fence. It is no easy task for me, but I manage. Once I am over I turn to face him as he follows. We’re safe now. Dad can’t shoot us if he can’t find us in a neighbor’s yard, one street over from our house. What about mom though?
I don’t know what happens next because this is where my memory ends. Mom did survive though so either she talked my abusive alcoholic and drug addicted father out of shooting her, or the police were called, or something. All I know is it wasn’t a good thing that my father owned a gun. His fists were weapon enough.
My innocents was lost before I had even gone away to kindergarten. The trust a child is supposed to have for a parent was betrayed again and again. Actually, I’m not even sure if there was ever trust to begin with. It probably never developed.
Now I live with the memories playing over and over inside my head. It’s like I’m there, trapped in a DVD that plays in my mind with sound effects and everything. It’s like an amusement park attraction which you paid to ride, and then realized you never wanted to go on in the first place. Maybe a friend tricked you into it, or maybe you thought you were in line for the spinning tea cups, but find out you are stuck going into the haunted house, and there’s no turning back.
Some would pity me, but I need no pity. It’s not productive. I’ve lived through it, and come out the other side. It’s in the past, even though it pops up in therapy every now and then. The thing I really feel bad about, is the kids it’s happening to right now. How many of them are living in a hell they think is just normal? Would I know them if I saw them?
It’s funny, when I examined this topic I couldn’t think of any betrayal stories. Someone asked me if I trusted very many people, because there has to be trust to have betrayal. I know I trust few people. I mostly keep my deepest thoughts to myself. I think I know why. It all starts with the hiding places: under the bed, in the closet, under the desk, in the bathroom with the door locked, outside in the garden. I’m not sure where it ends, but it unravels as I write, and as I remember.
He comes back and tells me to hurry. My small hand fits into his larger one and I follow him out of our hiding place, trembling and terrified. We climb onto the bed to reach the window. He whispers in my ear that I have to jump but it won’t be far. Wanting nothing more than to avoid the yelling, and the gun that my father is threatening all of us with, I jump out the window though I am unable to see where the ground is. I am only about seven-years-old so it’s still quite a drop for me. I land on my feet on the hard concrete. I am not wearing shoes.
My brother follows me out and we run across the yard where he gives me a boost to climb the six foot wooden fence. It is no easy task for me, but I manage. Once I am over I turn to face him as he follows. We’re safe now. Dad can’t shoot us if he can’t find us in a neighbor’s yard, one street over from our house. What about mom though?
I don’t know what happens next because this is where my memory ends. Mom did survive though so either she talked my abusive alcoholic and drug addicted father out of shooting her, or the police were called, or something. All I know is it wasn’t a good thing that my father owned a gun. His fists were weapon enough.
My innocents was lost before I had even gone away to kindergarten. The trust a child is supposed to have for a parent was betrayed again and again. Actually, I’m not even sure if there was ever trust to begin with. It probably never developed.
Now I live with the memories playing over and over inside my head. It’s like I’m there, trapped in a DVD that plays in my mind with sound effects and everything. It’s like an amusement park attraction which you paid to ride, and then realized you never wanted to go on in the first place. Maybe a friend tricked you into it, or maybe you thought you were in line for the spinning tea cups, but find out you are stuck going into the haunted house, and there’s no turning back.
Some would pity me, but I need no pity. It’s not productive. I’ve lived through it, and come out the other side. It’s in the past, even though it pops up in therapy every now and then. The thing I really feel bad about, is the kids it’s happening to right now. How many of them are living in a hell they think is just normal? Would I know them if I saw them?
It’s funny, when I examined this topic I couldn’t think of any betrayal stories. Someone asked me if I trusted very many people, because there has to be trust to have betrayal. I know I trust few people. I mostly keep my deepest thoughts to myself. I think I know why. It all starts with the hiding places: under the bed, in the closet, under the desk, in the bathroom with the door locked, outside in the garden. I’m not sure where it ends, but it unravels as I write, and as I remember.