I am finally at a point where I can get caught up with my writings. So here’s a new entry to kick it off.
~It’s a Tea Party~
During the summer after my sophomore year, we moved from a house that was right next to the high school into a small, oddly built a-frame house. My sister and I shared the remodeled attic. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. No central air and heating… just a small space heater. At almost eleven years apart, we would sleep in the same twin bed to stay warm. We were only allowed one blanket each so we literally combined our resources to keep from freezing.
Part of one of my chores was to make tea and refill used water bottles with the fresh tea. This is what Jack A. would drink. I hated doing this about as much as I hated him. I would like to say that I avoided punishment at all costs, but not always. After I turned fourteen, I started doing things to get back at him. Things like scrubbing the toilette bowl with his tooth brush or sprinkling and mixing his cigarette ashes in his dinner plate.
I was doing something similar to the tea bottles when I got caught. This was shortly after we moved into the a-frame house and I believe that this was a very close encounter to death.
It had gotten to over 100 degrees that summer and it was hotter in our house than it was outside. I was going about my chores and had started the tea. After it was ready and funneled into the bottles, I grabbed supper glue and was gluing the lids onto the bottles. My thought process was that if I glued the tops on them, it would buy me a week or so before having to make them again. Well, I got caught ‘glue’ handed so-to-speak.
When Jack A. didn’t have a cigarette stuck between his lips, there was a toothpick. When you added this to his ‘smile’… it just made it worse. I remember the rage in his eyes. They went from the cold silver/grey to black in that one instant. He pushed me into the counter, grabbed the empty pot I had made the tea in and hit me upside the side of the head. I remember throwing my arms up and around my head and face to protect myself. This just fueled his rage. I dropped and curled into a ball. I worked my way into the corner of the kitchen with my head to the corner so that most of the blows with the pot landed on my shoulders, back, and legs.
After the fifth blow, I lost consciousness. Kim was at work. My sister was at a sleep over and it was Jack A. and myself at the house. We lived out in the country and the nearest neighbors were an old couple that had a hard time hearing someone knock on the door, much less someone screaming for help next door. Then next closest neighbor was over a 1/2 mile away.
When that first blow landed on my head, my thought was:
He’s going to kill me this time. I hope he kills me this time.
On a regular basis, I would go to bed praying that I wouldn’t wake up the next morning. Feeling like I was at the end; I was at a point where I couldn’t take anymore and I just wanted to stop breathing.
When my eyes opened, it was dark outside as well as in the house. I was in my bed. There wasn’t any noises from downstairs. Kim must have come home and she and Jack A. had gone to bed. I hurt so bad and couldn’t move. Along with an extremely horrible and residual pain from the head injury, my back and ribs hurt. My rib cage hurt so badly, breathing was painful. I was told later in life that one of my ribs is permanently dislocated and this is probably the incident that had caused the dislocation.
I didn’t dare complain about my injures and I had since stopped trying to talk to my mom. It always came back to me in the form of a beating if I told my mother about anything Jack A. had done. My chores for the next day were doubled and I could barely walk. We lived on a lot that was about three quarters of an acre and I was made to mow it with a push mower. Jack A. withheld this change in my chores until the heat of the day so that I would have to do it during the hottest time. I wasn’t aloud to have any water to drink and couldn’t come into the house until the task was finished. I was usually allowed to use the riding lawn mower in the wee hours of the morning to avoid the issues with the heat. I had already done the mowing for the week but had to do it again.
I would like to think that I survived all of the beatings and everything else for a reason. There has to be a reason for all of the pain and suffering. I guess I’m still in the process of figuring out what that’s supposed to be.