Creative Outlet – a blog full of stories and personal musings


Corruption of A Damaged Man

Sometimes you sit down and reflect upon your life and how I am standing right now, with a .. sane enough mind is beyond me.

Let's start from the beginning, I was tossed into what can only be described as dysfunctional family. Dad was an alcoholic, who was barely home, except to sleep, yell, hit my mother and spank us kids. I know it sounds like a big fat cliché from just about any period movie. Mother whored herself out to anyone who'd pay and didn't care about her countless bruises. Most of the money went to giving us clothes and food. She was loving, however, gave us all her attention, when she wasn't staring blankly into space, tears rolling down her face. I had a sister and a brother. Both were older than me, by 5 and 7 years, respectively. I rarely talked to them, as they did their very best at being as far away from home as possible. Thinking back, it was probably the best thing one could do in such a situation.

My position in the home was that I was asked to do something and then I did it. I was a pushover at school and my teachers commented that I was distant and unavailable. The first time my dad heard this, I had a ringing headache for weeks afterwards and I did my best to be available and be the best student I could for him. My mother mainly used me for chores, when she was unable to, mostly when she couldn't stop crying or was completely exhausted. I ignored her cries and, probably, saw themselves as a sort of weakness. None in this household showed any sort of emotion, other than my mother who also did her best to hide it.  On the outside, it probably looked like everything was okay. We were bathed, we had food in our stomachs, reasonably new clothes but there were absolutely no family life what so ever. At Christmas  we'd get one gift from our mother and those Christmases were probably the times where she was the most happy.

At around age 10, it got even worse. Who'd have known, it could actually get worse. If I remember correctly, days were normally a haze. I had no one to play with, afternoons were spent doing homework or helping out at home. There were no friends and the only joy I seemed to have was when my mother wasn't crying. Dad brought home a friend, who introduces himself as uncle Bob. Ever the gentleman, "uncle" Bob said, dad said he could stay around here. My sister was 17 at this point and had, pretty much, moved out. My dad never noticed but my mother was happy for her and, sometimes, visited her at her new place. When she came home, her spirit was usually lifted. Uncle Bob took over her room, which was just a bed and a desk. Just like my dad, he constantly smelt like alcohol, but unlike my dad, he was more home.

I noticed he made a lot of moves on my mother, who she fought off with strength I've never seen before. I remember thinking he'd hit her now but it never came to be. Uncle Bob might as well have been a gentler version of my dad.

One day I woke up to him standing in the doorway. All I could see was his silhouette but he slowly moved into my room, obviously drunk. I'd imagined my dad was passed out in the living room and my mother had shaken off his advances. He came to my bed and attempted to get into it, hussing at me. I moved over, scared but feeling indifferent. I had no idea what was coming. I did as he asked and suddenly my head was in my pillow, turned towards the open door. He was big, I remember - so it hurt a lot. Suddenly, I saw my mother's silhouette in the door. She looked for a second, then ran down to her room. I heard the shot, but uncle Bob didn't stop. I felt nothing.

After the police had been here, the social workers arrived. They introduced themselves, but I do not remember their name. They were here to hear how I was doing in the middle of all this. I had refrained from saying anything to the police other than that I had heard the shot. I didn't know why, maybe because uncle Bob was there. They took me with them and asked all the questions I somewhat expected. I told them everything. About how my dad hits us, siblings moving out, my mother. But I didn't tell them about uncle Bob. I didn't tell them about what dad becomes when he stops taking his medicine. I didn't tell them about uncle Bob.

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