I push the heavy wooden door open, shuffling through before it slams shut behind me almost like a beacon bringing in ships. Languidly, yet as stealthily as a seven-year-old boy can be, I run down the hall to find my hiding spot. If I make it there, I might be safe.
If I'm quiet and don't move, maybe he won't hear me, won’t find me. I'm so scared. My fear is tangible. I can taste it all around me. Why did I go outside? Why didn't I listen? Bump, Crash! I hear the sounds getting closer. I hope he doesn't find me. I curl up in a tight ball in the corner of the closet as I wait for the inevitable.
My thoughts begin to wander, thinking about my four sisters. My older sisters, Fallyn, Jo, and Sage, left me and my baby sister, Adalyn, who’s small and helpless. I have to protect her. At all costs. Surely this is why? The reasons they all fled this house. And one day I will too.
My head hurts, and the scratches on my legs from the barbed wire fence are slowly bleeding and pooling on the floor below. Sweat is trickling down my back from running so hard outside on this warm summer day. It's quiet. Please don't find me. Maybe I can rest now, drift off for a few minutes, hours, seconds...time really isn’t relevant for me at my age.
My thoughts are interrupted when the sturdy door of my secret security closet swings open. BAM!
"There you are. I told you if you ran, it would be worse. You asked for it," a gruff, colossal voice yells.
Standing before me is the monster from my nightmares, my father. He's so big compared to me. He is looming over me dressed in overalls, wearing his Stetson, and holding his token of choice, the leather belt. My fear escalates, and black spots overtake my vision.
"Please don't, I'm sorry, sir!" I holler.
I'm caught. Grabbed by my shirt and yanked out of the closet, there is nowhere left to run. Struggling to escape, I twist my body from left to right, violently flailing my arms and kicking my legs. Praying to escape this nightmare before it begins.
"Please, don't, I'm sorry, sir!" I scream at the top of my lungs.
I'm thrown across the room, and my body collides with the adjoining wall. A picture falls and glass shatters all around me, cutting my arms. Little drops of blood form from the openings on my flesh. In slow motion, my arm is grabbed, and I'm hauled back toward my bed. Trying to find traction to stand, I slip and fall backwards, slamming into the lamp on the nightstand. My Ninja Turtle lamp succumbs to his fury, too, as it bursts into small pieces. Scrambling free, I rush toward the door, trying to bypass his long reaching arms once more. Only a few more feet and I can run.
"Please don't, I'm sorry, sir!" I howl, hoping against all hopes that my plea reaches out to the angels, but my prayers won't be answered today. They never are.
That's when I feel the sting of the frayed leather strap as it bites against my back through my clothes, shredding my tender skin. Welts are instant. Blood is what he requires to sate his demented craving. His anger is palpable. It feeds his monster. The monster his father created in him. Passed from father to son. From generation to generation.
This is going to be really bad. My pleading and cries go unnoticed with every painstaking slash, swing, and the onslaught of punishment begins. It will all be over soon enough, but I have to endure, I must take it, to keep my baby sister safe. That's when I retreat into that safe place in my consciousness that stays untouched...even by him.
Ten years later.
Waking from another bout of my father’s glorious learning exercises, I see mother is sitting quietly in the corner, staring out into the darkness, singing while rocking sweet little Addie. “Amazing Grace. How sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me….”
Even though Addie is ten now, mom loves to hold and rock her, and Addie seems to enjoy the attention. It’s a place of peace for mom, a reprieve she gets so little.
Being the fourth child out of five, the only boy at that, my protective instincts kicked in when I was younger. I fiercely protect my mom and baby sister, even when the consequences have nearly killed me a time or two. It’s my job to protect them.
Her face contorts in pain when she notices me watching her. I can tell once again she tried to intervene, and now her body bears the consequences.
"You shouldn't have tried to stop him. You knew he’d use you as his punching bag. He’s done it before. I can handle it. You’re fragile, mom. Why’d you do that?"
"Grayson, my dear sweet son, what kind of mother would I be if I hadn't? He wasn't going to stop this time," she replies.