Part 1

Part 1

I had to be no older than twelve years old when it all started. I remember was playing in the basement with my dolls and dollhouse. You know, doing little girlie things. Talking to my dolls and making them talk back to me, that kind of stuff. I had three Barbies, one Ken doll, the Barbie car, and a big house that my father put together for me this past Christmas. I heard the basement door open and I figured it was my mother coming down to do laundry; but it wasn’t, it was my dad. I was so happy to see him, when he got to the bottom steps I ran and jumped into his arms. I remember that day like it was yesterday, he reeked of alcohol, still dressed in his blues. Like he took several bottles and poured it all over himself right after his shift was completed. He gave me a kiss on my cheek, put me down, and told me to go play so he could take a nap. We had a finished basement, it was my playroom, and whenever there was company my age we would be sent down here to play or watch television. That way the adults can do adult things. He lays on the sofa and I go back over so I can continue to play. I try to be extra quite so he can rest up before Mommy comes home.

I must’ve played for hours, so I wanted to do something different. I looked at the clock and I knew it was five o’clock but couldn’t read the rest of the numbers on the analog clock because they were warn and the big hand was broken off. I rushed over to get the remote because my cartoons come on around this time. I sat Indian style in front of the sofa since my dad was still sleeping. I started to hum the tunes to the introduction of the show and that’s when I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. I’ll save you all the gruesome details, but as soon as my mom came home the man I once knew as my dad left out, not saying a word to anyone. I told her what happened and I thought, maybe I was just hoping that she would do something about it; possibly hold me and tell me it wasn’t my fault. Well, as fast as I hoped that would happen, the blame game started. It was all my fault and I’ve been trying to get his attention ever since I could walk she said. My heart broke, I felt like crawling under a rock because if my mom said it, it must be true; she’s always right.
 
She dragged me upstairs to the bathroom by my hair and threw me to the floor. I couldn’t stop crying and because of my cries she yelled louder but I couldn’t hear her. She filled the tub but I didn’t see her turn on the cold water. Steam rising from the porcelain clawfoot tub, she lifts me by my arm, and dumps me in, clothes and all. The water was so hot, my skin felt like it was on fire and peeling off. I screamed, telling her that I was burning and-and my skin was peeling. Hitting me in the head, yelling for me to shut up and saying because of me, she lost the one man that loved her; that I stole him and I better make sure that he’s happy. I didn’t know what she was talking about, all I knew is that the pain was gone, I couldn’t feel my legs. She grabs my face and slams my head backwards into the scolding-hot water and holds me underneath. I couldn’t breathe, I was hitting her hands so she would let me go but because I’m just a kid, my hits did nothing. My arms fell into the water and that’s all I could remember.

When I woke up, I was in my own bed. One would think she would come to her senses and begin to care for me, help me, treat me like her child instead of any other person on the street. Which wasn’t the case, I woke up to her beating me with the buckle end of my dad's belt. I was naked, wrist and ankles bond to my bed post. I scream out for God, I scream out for mercy, and my mother tells me that mercy is never granted to harlots.