| Biographical Non-Fiction posted October 5, 2023 | Chapters: |
...4 5 -6- 7... 
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Three children stumbling in the dark Age 10
A chapter in the book Ghost
Small Mercys
by Lea Tonin1
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
There was a knock on the door.
Nobody ever knocks on my door. The man just barges right in whenever he feels like it. As if he has the right to invade every part of my life.
Curious about who acted polite enough to knock on my door, I opened it and there stood my aunt. In her arms was a boatload of clothes, a bag of shoes, and other accessories. She had emptied her closet and brought me clean, nice clothing to look through.
I was delighted given the latest hurt my parents had inflicted upon me. A smile...almost as if it didn't belong there broke across my face.
I had learned very quickly that my parents would not provide for the things we wished or needed so I decided to earn my own money. I took up the task of selling chocolate-coated almonds. At 10 years old, I hit the pavement for weeks selling these chocolates.
I wanted to win the 10-speed bike you see by selling the most and so I did...by hundreds of boxes. I was proud of my work.
Proud that I had earned it myself.
I happily rode my bike to and from different places as my schedule permitted. It was the one thing that gave me joy.
My parents stole it. Sold it without me knowing. I asked where my bike was. My mother said "We sold it, we needed the money." They had money for cigarettes, pop, junk food, bowling, entertainment and all the things they wanted for themselves, but they stole my bike. My heart broke.
All the things I was told about hard work and earning my way blew up in my face as one big fat lie.
My protest earned me a knuckle on my head. My anger was uncontrollable at the injustice of the thing. I ran out the door and left the house for the day. I didn't go back. I knew what had been waiting for me. I didn't go back until the day was over.
There stood my aunt with a smile on her face, A boatload of things only girls could love. My delight at seeing her with such wonderful things quickly crumbled as the tears rolled down my face and I sobbed.
My aunt decided to spend the night and share my room with me. That night, hours of conversation unfolded before us. I unloaded it all. I unloaded so much so that I felt light afterwards. The amount of stress on my small self was taking its toll. She told me some things that both shocked me and surprised me at the same time.
Her words were, "Your parents use you girls as slaves and as little punching bags."
The thought didn't occur to me until years later. "If you knew what was happening, why didn't you do anything? Why didn't any of you help? Why didn't anyone say anything?"
At the time I was just happy to have someone believe me. Someone hearing what I had to say. An acknowledgment if you will, was greater to me than the question of why.
They all had fine reasons for not interfering. My grandmother, the old-fashioned reason, and the rest of the family things like "not our place" and "We knew you were okay when we saw you. You're grown up now. You don't need it now." All kinds of excuses people give that only conclude in the same result. What's the definition of insanity?
The pendulum swung back and forth daily. Time and events slowly chip away almost down to the core where there is nothing left to give.
My Aunt then began to tell me about God. My family except for my mother, my stepfather and us, was quite religious. Such was our isolation. When the conversation was over, I gained a new hope that perhaps, even if not in this life, the next life would be better.
*****************************
They lied...they always lied.
The one lie they liked the best. The one that stopped working very quickly was, "If you tell the truth, you won't be punished so badly but, if you lie, you'll be punished very badly."
BULLSHIT!!
Those knuckles and those legs came around corners before the rest of him did. They usually met with my face or some other portion of my head.
Sometimes connecting, sometimes pretending to connect. It was torture.
There was no justice telling the truth and no such thing as "not punished so badly."
Time went on as it inevitably does. My extreme hypervigilance and extra sensitivity were my defences against my stepfather.
I could measure the pressure in the air. Feelings of foreboding before the door would open.
A knowing of pressure and release. Just by a feeling, these gifts became something more.
That I was able to know things. I thought everyone did that. I gave it no further thought.
I was standing with a group of kids. One was talking about presents they got for their birthday and we were trying to guess each other's birthdays. I knew none of these children...we were having a sports day.
When suddenly a date flashed behind my eyes. I turned to the young boy beside me and gave him his birthday. He burst out yelling. "Who told you that? Did you guys tell her that? I don't know her! How do you know my birthday?!"
I just shrugged and said, "It was just a guess."
Sometimes I would get a feeling of anxiety or sadness from one of the kids and maybe I might guess why.
Usually, an event that has already taken place.
Didn't everybody do that. I waived it aside quickly.
I had bigger fish to fry so I just carried on with my hypervigilance, my sensitivity and my very real need to know where my stepfather was at any given time.
So I paid attention to all the cues around me and without really knowing, took up the lesson of understanding human nature.
In this way, I had some measure of protection...not always...but some.
Sitting back from my PC, I feel drained but, the feeling is not a negative one. It is an understanding that a cork has been pulled...a stopper removed. The words flow and will continue to flow until there are no words left to be said.
This is the vehicle to heal.
This Sentence Starts The Story contest entry
There was a knock on the door.
Nobody ever knocks on my door. The man just barges right in whenever he feels like it. As if he has the right to invade every part of my life.
Curious about who acted polite enough to knock on my door, I opened it and there stood my aunt. In her arms was a boatload of clothes, a bag of shoes, and other accessories. She had emptied her closet and brought me clean, nice clothing to look through.
I was delighted given the latest hurt my parents had inflicted upon me. A smile...almost as if it didn't belong there broke across my face.
I had learned very quickly that my parents would not provide for the things we wished or needed so I decided to earn my own money. I took up the task of selling chocolate-coated almonds. At 10 years old, I hit the pavement for weeks selling these chocolates.
I wanted to win the 10-speed bike you see by selling the most and so I did...by hundreds of boxes. I was proud of my work.
Proud that I had earned it myself.
I happily rode my bike to and from different places as my schedule permitted. It was the one thing that gave me joy.
My parents stole it. Sold it without me knowing. I asked where my bike was. My mother said "We sold it, we needed the money." They had money for cigarettes, pop, junk food, bowling, entertainment and all the things they wanted for themselves, but they stole my bike. My heart broke.
All the things I was told about hard work and earning my way blew up in my face as one big fat lie.
My protest earned me a knuckle on my head. My anger was uncontrollable at the injustice of the thing. I ran out the door and left the house for the day. I didn't go back. I knew what had been waiting for me. I didn't go back until the day was over.
There stood my aunt with a smile on her face, A boatload of things only girls could love. My delight at seeing her with such wonderful things quickly crumbled as the tears rolled down my face and I sobbed.
My aunt decided to spend the night and share my room with me. That night, hours of conversation unfolded before us. I unloaded it all. I unloaded so much so that I felt light afterwards. The amount of stress on my small self was taking its toll. She told me some things that both shocked me and surprised me at the same time.
Her words were, "Your parents use you girls as slaves and as little punching bags."
The thought didn't occur to me until years later. "If you knew what was happening, why didn't you do anything? Why didn't any of you help? Why didn't anyone say anything?"
At the time I was just happy to have someone believe me. Someone hearing what I had to say. An acknowledgment if you will, was greater to me than the question of why.
They all had fine reasons for not interfering. My grandmother, the old-fashioned reason, and the rest of the family things like "not our place" and "We knew you were okay when we saw you. You're grown up now. You don't need it now." All kinds of excuses people give that only conclude in the same result. What's the definition of insanity?
The pendulum swung back and forth daily. Time and events slowly chip away almost down to the core where there is nothing left to give.
My Aunt then began to tell me about God. My family except for my mother, my stepfather and us, was quite religious. Such was our isolation. When the conversation was over, I gained a new hope that perhaps, even if not in this life, the next life would be better.
*****************************
They lied...they always lied.
The one lie they liked the best. The one that stopped working very quickly was, "If you tell the truth, you won't be punished so badly but, if you lie, you'll be punished very badly."
BULLSHIT!!
Those knuckles and those legs came around corners before the rest of him did. They usually met with my face or some other portion of my head.
Sometimes connecting, sometimes pretending to connect. It was torture.
There was no justice telling the truth and no such thing as "not punished so badly."
Time went on as it inevitably does. My extreme hypervigilance and extra sensitivity were my defences against my stepfather.
I could measure the pressure in the air. Feelings of foreboding before the door would open.
A knowing of pressure and release. Just by a feeling, these gifts became something more.
That I was able to know things. I thought everyone did that. I gave it no further thought.
I was standing with a group of kids. One was talking about presents they got for their birthday and we were trying to guess each other's birthdays. I knew none of these children...we were having a sports day.
When suddenly a date flashed behind my eyes. I turned to the young boy beside me and gave him his birthday. He burst out yelling. "Who told you that? Did you guys tell her that? I don't know her! How do you know my birthday?!"
I just shrugged and said, "It was just a guess."
Sometimes I would get a feeling of anxiety or sadness from one of the kids and maybe I might guess why.
Usually, an event that has already taken place.
Didn't everybody do that. I waived it aside quickly.
I had bigger fish to fry so I just carried on with my hypervigilance, my sensitivity and my very real need to know where my stepfather was at any given time.
So I paid attention to all the cues around me and without really knowing, took up the lesson of understanding human nature.
In this way, I had some measure of protection...not always...but some.
Sitting back from my PC, I feel drained but, the feeling is not a negative one. It is an understanding that a cork has been pulled...a stopper removed. The words flow and will continue to flow until there are no words left to be said.
This is the vehicle to heal.
 Recognized |
The story is part of an autobio in a book called "Ghost".
***Picture by Lea Tonin***
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