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Essays - Survivor - Remembering Grandad - Poetry - Sketches


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Intro


     I'm a survivor. In spite of dealing with the issues involved with this, it's still hard to flat out say it. I don't like to make myself sound brave or special, since I survived by... well, by being a coward. I was too scared to fight back, even when I knew what was happening was WRONG.

     Several times, I ran away from home, and got dragged back. I never told anyone why. Not the cops, not the shrinks they sent me to, nobody. I trusted no one. I couldn't, when my own family was hurting me. I didn't know, then, that there are people who not only care but whose job it is to stop that sort of thing.

     I think that's why I love the show Law and Order, Special Victims Unit so much.... it gives me hope that somewhere there are cops who care, who are helping kids suffering like I did to find an escape, a safe place. I might have met cops like that, if I'd known they weren't going to run and tell my parents what I was saying then give me back to them.

     It's funny, even now I can't really talk about what happened to me as having happened to me. I write about it, but it's all third person, as though it happened to someone else. It's.... I don't know it feels like in admitting these things were real, I'm... admitting my guilt? In allowing them to happen, and never speaking out?

     I know it wasn't my fault, in my head, but my gut, the part that was told over and over I deserved it for whatever reason, still believes it. I was also told that if I ever told anyone, he'd kill my Mom.

     I finally told my Mom about this last summer. She understood why I've kept silent so long. My memories aren't repressed, I know they're all there. I've just ruthlessly suppressed them. I know I ought to let them out and deal with them, but I still don't trust counselors and shrinks.

     You might then reasonably ask, why am I airing this here? I'm not sure. Maybe I'm hoping to let other survivors trapped in their own private Hells, know they are not alone. Someone out here knows at least in part, the terror, the pain, and that feeling of being defiled, violated, that never goes away.

     The essays on this page were written from various writing prompts, attempts at self-analysis, I suppose. They're not pretty reading, but I think they're worth sharing.

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Sometimes, the monster is real


     There are monsters in the world. No matter what our parents tell us, sometimes the monster is real. Mine was. He haunts my dreams still. I still hear his voice, smell the reeking odor of Listerine on his breath, feel his hands and his weight. I fight the nightmare every day. On my good days, it's only a shadow at the back of my awareness, mostly swamped out by the brightness of my day. On the bad days.... *shrugs* I'm very, very lucky I have friends, on my bad days.

     It's the rare moment of clarity that make the struggle worth it, isn't it? I have my nights when I stay awake for 2 or 3 days at a time because I fear my dreams so badly... and other nights I sleep like a baby because I've FACED those monsters and faced them down. I know they'll be back, but every time i back them down, they come back weaker, and diminished in their ability to hurt me.

     I'm also blessed with friends who understand, and who are perfectly to stand behind me. I still face the shadows alone, but I have a wall protecting my back, and I know all I have to face is what's before me.

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No Such Thing as Monsters: yeah, right.


     It's dark today. For once it's not a symbolic dark, like her days usually are. It's actually cloudy, damp, rainy. Today matches her mood: dreary. She is past feeling anger or fear. She is resigned. She knows that the monster is there, waiting, with some new torment for her. Yesterday, the monster killed her kitten right before her eyes.

     He snatched it out of her arms, flung it violently to the floor and stomped it slowly to death. The monster laughed as her cries blended with the anguished wails and gurgles of the dying kitten. The sickening, coppery sweet smell of blood clogged her nose, making her choke. She was forced to scoop up the broken, pathetic remains with her bare hands, the kitten's blood dripping from her fingers... and dispose of them in the trash masher. He didn't let her bury the kitten.

     The mess on the carpet had to be cleaned completely, because she was promised something "really bad" would happen if it wasn't. No stain at all was to remain. It was off white carpet.

     Today is dark. She can barely walk for the pain and bruising. The monster beat her before bed. He visited her last night, too, his hunger inflamed by her agony and fear.

     No one bothers to ask her what's wrong. no one notices. She doesn't dare cry.

     After all, there's "no such thing as monsters".

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Hungry Darkness


     She lay in velvet darkness, unbroken by the smallest gleam of light, and trembled. The monster was out there. She could hear him breathing. She wasn't allowed a light, not even a clock. The monster didn't want her to know when to expect him. The monster didn't want her to see him. But she knew. She knew he was coming for her again. His breathing was like a bellows in the blackness. The click of the doorknob was as loud as a gunshot,and she jumped-then lay still hoping the monster would change his mind, but he never did. The old, mildewy mattress sagged as the monster laid upon it, his hands on her body, his voice hoarse in her ears...

     "You know you want it. You're ready for it, aren't you?" The monster is there and there is no escape.The monster devours her, chews her up and spits her out, discards her like yesterdays news. She knows, though, that there will never be enough. The monster thrives on her pain and fear and he will keep coming back for more because that's what monsters do. Monsters are never satisfied. She no longer fears the things that may live in the dark beyond her bed. Those monsters are like childhood friends. She knows the monster is real, and that he will come for her when he is hungry. And he is always hungry.

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The Scream


     He screamed. His face burned red-red as blood, red as fire- and he screamed. It didn't matter what his words were- he screamed. He could have been saying "I love you", and she still would have cringed, would have shuddered, would have cried. In the redness of his face his mouth gleamed, a wet alien cavern to swallow her alive. He never moved- no threat there. Yet. But he screamed. It went on and on until she could hear nothing but the scream, see nothing but the red slippery howling cavern, know nothing but hot yellow fear.

     He, not seeing, feeding from his own scream, kept howling, wailing, keening incoherence, and he screamed. Unthinking, raging, incandescent anger boiling in the air as she shriveled. Her mind and heart overcome, she died a little at a time with each fresh howl. He screamed, and each scream chipped a little more from her tormented spirit, making her more frail, more uncertain, terrified, weak with each sound.

     Each scream opened a new wound in her heart, robbing her of will and courage. He screamed, and every scream pounded into her gut like an iron-hard fist, mauling her, cutting and bruising her, killing her a little piece at a time.

     He screamed, and she............................................

     She died.