Epilogue

I live with a monster. He eats and sleeps with me and commits heinous crimes against me. I cannot escape him. He gave me life and soon he is sure to give me death. This heinous monster is my father.

I live under his rein of terror and I have no choice but to accept the life I was born into. I am helpless. I am but a child, a dependent, a slave. I do not question my existence; I simply endure it with a deafening silence that only a wounded spirit can appreciate. I spend my days in survival mode. I shrink, swallow my tongue, and play dead. All of these are defensive mechanisms I play close to my heart, but my signature move is endurance. I endure what no child should ever have to endure. It’s tragic that at this point in my young life; I am oblivious to this liberating truth.

One

I expel a whoosh of air from my nose and mouth as I reach the safety of the stiff green leather seat somewhere at the center of the big yellow school bus. I slide into the empty seat and scoot over until my sweaty forehead can rest itself on the dewed coolness of the foggy window. I close my eyes and try to simply feel and allow the numbness to leave my body. It doesn’t of course. I’ve never quite managed to let my guard down.

Instead, I become nauseous with my efforts and the persistent feeling that I need to urinate and defecate all in one hits me in small waves. I begin to feel ill as I do each morning when I leave the war zone. At the thought of this I become riddled with goose bumps and again I endure. I also give up trying to dispel the numbness. I can’t stand the pain.

I sit in total blankness until the bus comes to a screeching halt. Only then do my noisy surroundings register as buzzing boys and girls make their way off the bus and onto the school yard. I don’t follow them. As soon as a path is cleared, I weave my way to the school cafeteria. No matter how much I detest standing in line in a wide open room full of rowdy kids who are all surely staring me down, I cannot forsake the opportunity to fill my belly with a tasty hot American breakfast. The thought of waffles, eggs, and bacon makes my mouth foam at the seams. No amount of nervousness can stand in the way of this measly indulgence I allow myself every weekday before the school bell rings.

To be continued...

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ericjasongastelum - 7/29/2008 12:49 AM ET

This makes so many memories come back. Remembering when the bus seats were fake leather green. I clearly remember putting my mouth on the back of the seats that taste so sour like party ribbons. Growing up in a broken home with my mother's extremely abusive boyfriends is another vivid thought this makes me look back at. All of that aside, I am very interested to read so much more of this tale. Makes me wish it was a book so I could get totally and completely lost in this story. Thank you very much for writing this I look forward to reading the rest.

Claudia (BrokenWing) - 7/30/2008 7:31 AM ET

Seems like a good start to a compelling story about an relationship with an abusive father. I can completely relate. Too bad this is a memoir. Brings back my own bad memories. You have my sympathy.

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