Time to move on once again

A Crane for Each Child; Students Seek End to Child Abuse (Photo credit: ct senatedems)

I’ve decided it’s time to leave little Sean lying on his bed, trying to recover from the emotional and physical abuse he’s endured.  That  was a tough little series to write.  I really can’t understand child abuse.  I get that people who abuse have usually suffered abuse themselves…I get it, really I do.

What I don’t get is what is going on in an abuser’s mind that tells them that what they’re doing is okay?  I know that people who are a lot smarter than I am have given this issue a lot of thought over the years.  And that they don’t really have any more answers than I do…but I can’t help but question this.  And…then I find myself questioning why I’m writing about it…I think I just had to tell the tale.

So, in leaving little Sean behind for now, where do I go next?  There are stories begging to be told…stories from a hundred years ago, or fifty years ago, or ten years ago, or yesterday, or even stories from the future.  I guess we’ll have to wait and see which one comes out on top tomorrow.

 

Hiding in the dark

Monday morning 102/365 (Photo credit: Blue Square Thing)

The mommy and daddy monsters left Sean alone in the dark, battered and bruised.  He heard the click of the lock on the bedroom door, then their footsteps walking toward the kitchen.  He didn’t know how long he stayed on the bed, his hands still gripped around the rails on the head-board.  He wanted to curl up in a ball and drift into the dark place.  The place no one could ever follow him.  No one could yell at him or hurt him.  The place where little boys didn’t live with mommy and daddy monsters, or get locked in their rooms, bleeding and hungry and hurting.

Finally braving the pain that wracked his little body, the boy began slowly moving, trying to make the hurt go away.  He lay there in the dark, staring at nothing, holding and rocking himself, refusing to allow the tears to fall.  He asked himself why he was always such a bad boy, why couldn’t he be a good boy?  If only he could be good, then maybe his mommy and daddy wouldn’t have to be monsters.  Maybe they could love him.  He told himself he would be a better boy.  No matter how hungry he gets, he won’t ever take food again.  He will be so good that they will smile at him and hug him and read him bedtime stories like the nice people do when he gets to stay with them sometimes.  Maybe, if he can be good enough, his mommy will let him help her bake cookies like the nice lady did that one time.  And maybe his daddy will let him sit on his lap and they’ll watch cartoons on tv and laugh at the funny ones.  If only he could be good enough for those things to happen…

As the little boy’s eyes began to close, he began rubbing the satin border on the blanket between his fingers and thumb, the thumb finding its way into his mouth.  Sometimes, when you’re only three, you find what comfort you can, especially when you live with mommy and daddy monsters.

Fade into darkness

schwarzer Ledergürtel (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

With his wife smiling at him, the man nods his head.  He walks to the bed, smacks the back of the boy’s head, and says, “Look at me now, boy.”  The little boy turns his head and looks up at the daddy monster.  The man swings the belt back and forth in front of the boy’s face.  “You know this is for your own good.  If you would just behave yourself, we wouldn’t have to punish you.  One of these days you’ll learn not to steal or lie or make messes.”  The man hits the palm of his hand with the belt.

“So tell me, Sean, how many swats do you think you should get for stealing?”

The little boy shakes his head, afraid to say anything.  Afraid that whatever he says will be wrong.

Suddenly the belt cracks across Sean’s shoulders, the pain taking a few seconds to register.  The boy’s body stiffens as he struggles not to cry out.  The daddy monster’s face appears.  “How many?”, he rages.  “Tell me how many you deserve for being a thief!”

When the boy takes too long to answer, the belt whacks across the boy’s thighs with a loud snap.  “How many, Sean?  What’s the appropriate punishment for stealing?”, the man shouts as he raises the belt head-high and whips it down across the boy’s butt.

As the boy’s body tries to escape from the pain, the mommy monster pulls on his legs.  “Don’t you dare move, you little brat!  If you move again, it’ll be another whippin’ for you and you know it!  Now you better answer your daddy, if you know what’s good for you!”

The boy whispers, “Five.”

The man whips the leather belt onto the boy’s back.  “I can’t hear you!  How many, boy?”

Through his tears, the little boy tries to speak louder, “Five.”

The man cracks the belt into the boy’s shoulders again, the tip of the belt curling around and hitting his cheek, drawing blood.  “That’s better, boy.  Now we’re going to count to five.”

He raises and lowers the belt with all of his strength,  smacking the belt over the boy’s body as he forces the child to count each hit.  When the count reaches five, the man raises the belt and brings it down with all his might, then laughs.  “Oops, guess I forgot how to count.”

The mommy monster releases Sean’s ankles and joins her husband, resting her hand on his chest.  “Supper will be ready in  a few minutes, honey.”  She then walks over to the boy, leans down, and says, “Too bad little boys who steal don’t get to eat supper.”

 

Writing about darkness

English: Emotions Q-sort (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Okay, I’ve been writing my little “darkness” series for a few days (think it’s going to wrap up tomorrow).  This is part of a bigger story that’s been running around in my mind for several years, so you’d think I wouldn’t be affected by it.  Well, I’m here to tell you today, that’s just not how it is.

This afternoon, as I was writing the post to be published tomorrow, I really felt emotional.  I felt so bad for the poor, frightened little boy (Sean…hmm…have you figured this out yet?).  I felt disgust for his father who apparently has abused the child for most of his life (I say apparently, like I don’t know the facts of the story).  And I felt downright hatred for the boy’s mother who was an active participant in the abuse.

Why do you think I felt hatred for the mother, but not for the father?  I mean, aren’t both parents supposed to nurture and protect their children?  Why place a higher level of blame on the mother than on the father?

Does your writing raise questions about what you believe and why you believe it?  Does it cause you to look deeper within yourself to examine why you feel as you do?  And do you want to read books or stories that make you feel uncomfortable?  Thoughts about any of this would be welcome.

Related articles

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The dark hole

Hématome – Injurie (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The mommy monster grabbed the little boy’s upper arm, squeezing hard while pulling him toward the bed.  She suddenly stopped, taking him by surprise with a swift slap to the face.  “Take off your clothes, you dirty, dirty boy.  You peed yourself.  What?  Do you need to start wearing diapers again?”  The mommy monster was so angry that the skin on her face turned red and she was spitting in the boy’s face as she shouted.

The boy looked at the mommy monster, tears welling in his big brown eyes.  He knew he was a bad boy, a dirty boy.  Only bad boys pee their pants when they’re three.  His bottom lip was quivering as he pulled his shirt over his head.  He knew better than to argue or even to plead.  Both would only lead to increased punishment and he knew he was about to receive severe punishment, he didn’t want to make it any worse.  He pulled his pants down and stepped out of them.

The mommy monster jerked him toward her, bending over so her face was only inches from his own.  “You know we don’t like doing this to you, but you make us do it.  When you steal or lie, we have to beat the evil out of you!  This is all your fault, you bad, dirty boy!”  She then threw his little body onto the bed.  “On your stomach!  Don’t you dare move!”

She yanked his skinny little arms up toward the railings on the headboard, squeezing his fingers around  the posts.  “Keep your hands there!  You know you’ll only make it worse if you let go.”  She then walked toward the foot of the bed, reached over and grabbed his ankles, holding tight to keep the boy from moving.  As she glanced over the child to make sure all was exactly as her husband demanded, she vaguely noticed the varicolored bruises on the boy’s body.  Old, nearly faded yellow bruises.  More recent, blue bruises.  And the more vivid purple/black bruises from the last punishment session.  Then there were the thin scars on the boy’s back and thighs.  Scars from the punishments when her husband used the whip-thin switches, drawing blood, as he raised the switch over and over, high above his head, only to bring it whistling down to bite into the flesh of the boy.

With that memory fresh in her memory, the woman’s gaze met that of her husband,  a smile slowly forming on her lips.

The surrounding darkness

Graffiti Monster Eating Human (Photo credit: epSos.de)

The monster stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.  The boy struggled to his feet, desperately thinking about hiding.  But he knew he had no place to hide where the monster couldn’t find him.  He wrapped his arms around his stomach, trying to ease the pain caused by the vicious kick from the monster.  The boy began trembling.  He knew the pain was going to get worse.  He knew he would be punished for eating the crackers that didn’t belong to him.  He had tried so hard not to take the crackers, but the monsters had been gone from the house for three bedtimes.  He tried not to eat the food because he knew the monsters got mad at him when he ate anything without asking first.  But he was so hungry and didn’t know when they would come back.

Part of him had hoped  the monsters would stay away forever.  But he was just a little boy and he knew little boys have to have grown-ups around to do things for them.  Little boys don’t know everything yet.  He wished the monsters had taken him to the nice people before they left, but they locked him in the house instead.  He knew how to unlock the door, but remembered the punishment he got one time for going outside when the monsters were gone. He remembered he couldn’t walk for days after the punishment.  He didn’t know how many days because that was when he was littler, before he knew how to count.  He just knew he didn’t ever want to get punishment like that again.  So he stayed in the house no matter how hungry he got, no matter how cold he got.  He tried to be a good boy.

No matter how hard he tried, he was never a good boy.  He wanted to be good, but the monsters both told him he was a bad, dirty boy.  He knew bad boys got punishment, the monsters told him that almost every day.  If he could be good, then he wouldn’t have to get the punishment. The nice people always told him he was a good boy, but he didn’t know why he couldn’t be good when he was home with the monsters.

Suddenly the door slammed against the wall.  The monster filled the doorway, swinging the big belt back and forth.  He stepped into the room and the other monster walked in behind him.  The daddy monster pointed at him and said to the mommy monster, “Get the brat on the bed and hold him.  It’s time for his punishment.”

Run from the darkness

fear (Photo credit: siette)

“Please, please, please, don’t let him find me.  Don’t let the monster get me.  I be good.  I promise I be good.”  The little boy, cowering in the back of the dark closet, kept whispering this as he tried to become invisible by closing his eyes and covering his face with his hands.  He heard the monster roaring, knew he was coming for him, just like he’d come for him all those times before.

The monster was getting closer.  His monster feet were pounding against the floor, shaking the entire house.  He was slamming doors as he looked in each room for the scared little boy.  With every minute that passed, the monster’s shouts became louder and scarier.  “You better get your ass out here now!  Get out here and take it like a man, you damn little brat!”

The door banged against the wall causing the little boy to jump in fear.  “No, no, no…please don’t let him find me…please.”  The closet door was wrenched open so fast it almost came off the hinges.  The boy tried to move further back into the dark corner of the closet, tried to silence the whimpers escaping from him.

The monster stepped into the closet, shoving clothes around.  “I know you’re in here, you little bastard.  I can smell you.  Did you piss yourself again?  You’re nothing but a nasty, filthy little thief.”

The little boy gasped as the monster’s face appeared right before him.  Then he felt the monster grab him and yank him from his hiding place.  He knew there was no escaping the monster now.  The monster stood there in the middle of the room, roughly holding the boy at arm’s length, several feet off the floor.  Shaking the boy so violently that his body went limp, the monster yelled in his face, “I know you took it!  I know you did! What have I told you about taking things that don’t belong to you?”

Tears were running down the boy’s cheeks, his mouth open in a silent scream.  The monster shook him again then threw him against the wall.  The monster walked up to the crumpled little body, then stood there with his hands on his hips.  The boy’s dark brown eyes looked up at the monster in fear.  He whispered, “I sorry.  I be a good boy.”

The monster pulled his leg back and kicked the little boy in the stomach.  “You’ll never be a good boy.  You’re nothing but a piece of crap.  I wish to hell you’d never been born.”  Then the monster squatted down, putting his monster face right in the boy’s face, his monster breath washing over the boy.  “You stay right here.  Don’t you try to hide from me again.  It’s time for your punishment, you little thief.”