The story of a boy….well, he was much more than that to me……
This is the 6th in the series. And this is not really part of the Boy’s story as much as it is part of his mother’s story….
Before I begin; let me say that this post will not be funny. And it might contain information that upsets you and not in the usual way with offensive language and politics…..but in a human, sad and guttural way. I may very well ramble at times and for all of these things: I am genuinely sorry. Please read Parts 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 before reading this. It will just make more sense that way.
You see in The Story of a Boy~ we are up to his beautiful life……but we are also at #6 on the story enumeration. And as the mother of this Most Special Boy…I can NOT, WILL NOT allow his life story to be told as #6.
You see I hate the #6. And I am not just throwing around the word ‘hate’ here…. I mean I genuinely and with ALL of my being ABHOR the number 6………and I shall share the reason why. I shall try to be brief …..but brevity has never been my strong suit.
When I was 8 years old I was dropped off at my father and step-mother’s house for what was supposed to be a 2 week thanksgiving visit……….only my mother did not return at the end of the 2 week period…..in fact she did not return for nearly 2 long, painful, soul killing, horrible years.
The address # of the house where my father and step-mother lived was 664……but in my childhood mind that house still lives within me as 666.
For this is the house where pure evil lived. This is the house where my childhood innocence would be trampled to death. This is the house where events happened that would forever change my sibling’s upbringing and mine. This is the house where 4 small, innocent children were beaten and tortured in every way possible. THIS is the house where hate lived. THIS is the house that stole the childhood innocence that was me and replaced it with fear, anger, frustration and DETERMINATION.
We lived there, my siblings and I, for just under 2 years. But even now~ some 32 years later……….this house still haunts me in my nightmares.
I hate the #6….I never, EVER buy 6 of anything. I avoid going in the 6th line at the grocery store: even when no one is waiting and the other lines are long. My husband laughs at this. It has become a running joke between us. But in my heart of hearts it is not funny. It is awful. It is painful. It is real. And it IS what I have spent a lifetime overcoming.
It is not easy living in a house where you are hated. It is not easy living with adults that would rather torture you than accept you and love you. It is not easy to watch your father, who himself has NEVER raised a hand to you, stand idle and do nothing while the woman he married and her family treat you like devil’s spawn.
And yet….this is how we lived, my two sisters, my brother and me……and there were times I was sure that THIS was the house in which we would die…all of us………and no one would notice.
There were bruises, cuts, stitches, broken bones and broken spirits that no one noticed….surely our deaths would go unnoticed too.
Not for shock value and not for hate or rage……but just because like the #6 there I many things I hated after escaping that house…..I will share just ONE of the horrific things….by far NOT the worst…..but one example of how we were treated during our stay there.
And so here is the reason that to THIS DAY neither spinach, nor sour kraut, nor turnip greens of ANY kind have been cooked in the homes of me or my siblings…….why, to THIS DAY the smell of them cooking brings me INSTANTLY and painfully back to that house of terror…..
I was 8 and my baby sister was 4. She was a tiny thing~ always had been. My brother was 10, my older sister 12 when we began the end of our childhood there at 664.
Neither myself nor my baby sister had ever, EVER had a strong stomach. We weren’t what you’d call “picky” eaters……..but like any 4 and 8 year old would~ we would turn our noses up at the thought of eating cooked spinach, sauerkraut, collard greens, liver etc.
Unfortunately, for us, these were items frequently on the menu in the house of evil.
The first time we were forced (and I mean FORCED in every sense of the word) to eat the above menu items…both of us (quite unceremoniously) vomited. Right there at the table we vomited. And our father sent us off to bathe and clean up and our step-mother glared at us with a hatred that I still to this day cannot name the source of.
And so the next time spinach was on the menu in the house of evil……our step-mother, with a snarl some might call a smile, scooped a heaping helping of the nasty cooked greenery onto both my sister’s and my (my other siblings too) plates. My father excused himself after he hastily completed his meal…….and my step-mother watched and waited.
Everyone else finished their meals and left the table….everyone but my sister and me. And we were not permitted to leave the table until our plates were clean. Well…..a full hour later…..two bites into the spinach my sister vomited……and (never being one to be able to see someone vomit without vomiting myself) so did I.
And my step-mother in her evil genius determination decided that my sister and I had vomited “on purpose” to avoid eating food we did not like. And she further determined that we would still not be able to leave the table until we had eaten everything on our plates……vomit and all.
And this dinner ritual repeated itself literally hundreds of times in the house of evil. I cannot begin to estimate the number of times we (the four of us~ because WHO can watch someone be FORCED to eat their own vomit without vomiting themselves) had to do this in the near two years we lived there.
But I can tell you that I have NEVER ONCE forced ANY child to clean their plate. We have a “one bite” rule~ try ONE bite if you don’t like it….you don’t have to eat it: PERIOD.
I can also tell you that my 4 living children have NEVER and God willing WILL NEVER endure the terror that we lived through in the house of evil.
I can also tell you that I can (after some years of therapy and distance from the house of evil) can eat RAW spinach, but I still HEAVE when I smell it cooking.
And I can tell you that I hate the number 6. I know it is irrational, I know it may not make sense…….but I do hate it nonetheless.
And so~ the story of a Boy and his BEAUTIFUL life will NOT be told in Part 6.
6 is where the evil lives.
And my boy, tiny, fragile and destined to change the lives of his family forever will LIVE in Part 7.