That Was What Hurt Me the Most Page 2
I was approximately ten or eleven years old. My family had moved into a townhouse complex. A friend from my old neighborhood was visiting and we were ’hanging out’ with our new friends in the complex next door, along with my two sisters. We were sitting in someone’s garage listening to music. All of a sudden everyone ran out and shut the garage door, -everyone except me and one of the boys who apparently was not in on the joke either. The kids were all outside lying on the ground looking into the garage through the little space they had left open between the garage door and the ground. They were giggling and kept telling us to kiss. Neither of us knew what to do so we both just kept staring at the ground. I was standing perfectly still and held my breath, I was literally scared stiff.
I began to feel dizzy when I was snapped back into alertness by my mother’s loud, enraged voice yelling at the kids outside. The garage door rapidly swung open. My mother looked distorted. She appeared to be huge with rubbery-looking, long arms and legs. Her movements toward me seemed slow and exaggerated. Her face was twisted with anger. That was the scariest I have ever seen her look, up until that point and ever since. I have had many nightmares because of it.
My mother grabbed my arm and pulled it up hard. The tip of her nose was touching mine as she yelled at me. Her eyes were enormous and red with anger. Her saliva was spraying my face every time she yelled at me demanding to know what I had been doing. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move, so she literally dragged me home and into our house where she proceeded to yell to my father about the events. She told him that I put myself and this boy into the garage and forced him to kiss me. Apparently I had also told every kid in the neighborhood to watch. She knew this is exactly what had happened because not only did my sister tell her that, but also every boy and girl who had been present at the time agreed with my sister’s story out of fear that my mother would tell their parents what they had been up to. My mother placed me in front of my father who was sitting on the couch.
My father sat there staring at me for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he calmly asked me if the story was true. I said it wasn’t. He raised his hand and asked me again. I barely spoke the word ‘no’ as I closed my eyes. His hand slapped my face so hard I could instantly feel his hand- print form on my cheek. I opened my eyes and could see my two sisters and my friend standing in the front hall. My sisters watched, hoping that they would be spared, and my friend looked horrified. I looked to the floor. I was embarrassed and ashamed that this was happening in front of my friend. I knew that from this moment on everyone would know this was how children were disciplined at my house. I was trying hard not to let the tears escape my eyes. My father told me to look at him. I did. He asked me again if it was true. Again I said no. He smacked my face again. He repeated the same question and I gave the same answer thirteen times. I stood my ground while the uncontrollable tears streamed down my face. The last hit was a hard backhand to my face which knocked me off my feet. My father told me to go to my room because he didn’t want to look at me anymore, I disgusted him. That was the day he started calling me a whore.
I had to walk past my mother, my sisters and my friend to get to the stairs that led to my room. I did not look up at any of them as I passed by. My older sister had thrown me to the wolves again to save herself, but I had gotten used to that. My mother had become this fiend who seemed to thrive on the pain my father inflicted on me. There were many times throughout my child-hood when it seemed as if she went out of her way to catch me doing something wrong, and then she would sit on the edge of her seat until my father got home. The accounts of the day would come flowing out of her as if a damn had just burst. She would try to look angry, but I could see a hint of satisfaction in her face. That was what hurt me the most.
- Thats What Hurt Me The Most Page 3
This is page three of 'That Was What Hurt Me The Most'. This is when I started to believe that we had a chance at becoming a normal, happy family. That dream did not last long.