| Biographical Non-Fiction posted October 2, 2023 | Chapters: |
2 3 -4- 5... 
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The story of three children running away. Age 10
A chapter in the book Ghost
Enough
by Lea Tonin1
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
Time is the enemy when, month after anguished month, it ticked by, and the regularity of the abuse continued until chunks of ourselves were slowly chipped away.
Ever since my mother let that man come to live with us, our lives become one physical and emotional pain after another.
In the isolation of our World War II island community, much could be said and done without a whisper for many years.
I had reached the age of ten. My sister's eight and five. We were hiding in the closet, the three of us, trying to decide our next move. But how many moves can you make when you're ten, eight and five?
There are only two options: stay or go. And I knew that staying meant years more of fear, isolation and pain. Our world had narrowed to the end of a fist, broken sporadically with visits from the mans son.
The first event that precipitated our closet meeting was an incident with my youngest sister. He was mad about some infraction she had committed, so her took her by the back of the head and swung her by her hair, effectively removing a large patch at the back of her head.
Something that spoke to me, within me, at that moment, that not even he could silence, knew this was wrong despite all the guilt and the mind games my parents played. I still knew something was wrong. They tried to convince us that what was happening to us was our fault. They tried to tell us that if it weren't for our actions, these things would not happen. But I knew somewhere in the horror, the wrongness of it all.
it rang out like a large and dusty bell in my mind.
So I told my friends, I told everyone at school, and told my teachers. I told anyone who would listen. I showed them the large scab on the back of my sister's head. I showed them what he did. And then, I waited. But nothing happened, no one came. No one asked questions. Things carried on, and the nightmare of our lives carried on too.
In the second incident, shortly after, my middle sister made some error that he was angry about, he decided he wouldn't let her eat. He wouldn't for some time. When he finally did, she made herself eggs and toast but promptly threw it up. He immediately picked her up and chucked her so hard into the cupboards that the wood split in two. Then he made her clean it up, sent her to our room, and, again, she wasn't allowed to eat. At times like that, we would sneak each other food at times like that.
Such a desperate and fear-filled existence it was in those days.
The third incident occurred that evening while my two sisters were in bed, I asked the man who became my stepfather, if we could watch my favourite show, Man from Atlantis. He was in a strangely smiling mood, which made me nervous, but he said, "Yes." So, I went into the TV room and sat down to watch the show. He asked me to sit beside him, which I did, then he put his arm around me.
He began to ask me questions about how I was feeling emotionally and physically. I dared not move or not answer his questions because the repercussions could be far worse.
I told him I felt like I always did. He bent and kissed me like a man kisses a woman and then he asked me if I liked it. I responded "No," which made him laughed and squeeze me closer to him.
For the first time, I couldn't wait for my show to be over so I could escape him and go to my room. No other move was possible.
I've never felt the same ever since that day. A feeling of shame and of being dirty never left me.
So, in our closet meeting, the three of us in the dark, whispering amongst ourselves. "There was only one thing to do." I said to them, "We must leave. We must put all our pennies together, get a sleeping bag each and leave."
The idea for the three of us to go seemed like a shining beacon of light, a possibility that maybe there was something better than what we were experiencing. Anything was better.
Spurred on by fear, adrenaline and hope for something else, we quickly did our chores as if it was expected whether we were leaving or not. We had $1.31 between us, so we walked to the corner store and bought a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. No adults thought it strange or asked why three young children, each carrying a sleeping bag, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter, were walking over the bridge to leave the island community we were in.
Three young children, all ten and under, leaving one island and onto another. The total amount of our walk before exhaustion took hold, brought us to the freeway and the exit out. Underneath a highway ramp, we made up our beds. One sister was on the lookout the other two prepared peanut butter sandwiches. We swapped throughout the night watching for police or parents.
We saw niether, and no one noticed us underneath that highway ramp. By the time the morning light came, we were done. We had to go back, there was nowhere for us to go but back. We would die out there. Even as young and small as I was.
I also knew that no one would help us.
Not even her. Acually, least of all her.
The sense of trepidation and the unknown hovered over my head and the heads of my sisters as I did what I swore not to do. Lead them back...to him.
The sun's rise saw us knocking on the front door, which my mother opened. The thought occurred to me, even at age ten, that her look of tiredness was all part of the same facade she always had: "How could you do this to me? How could you behave this way?" She played the victim very well.
*********************************************************
The question comes, "Where was your mother in all this?" Nowhere. Out with her friends. Bowling. Playing cards. Nowhere. We had long ago given up trying to get her to protect us. We were wolf fodder.
The shame that I could not protect my sisters or keep walking the morning after put our escape, stayed with me for a long time. That I couldn't do what I knew needed to be done, hung on my heart like clothes on a line.
Back to the fire with the best armour, I could come up with: Anger. The years rolled out with so much more to tell. An assault on the reader of what must be told...the story of all like me.
True Story Flash contest entry
Time is the enemy when, month after anguished month, it ticked by, and the regularity of the abuse continued until chunks of ourselves were slowly chipped away.
Ever since my mother let that man come to live with us, our lives become one physical and emotional pain after another.
In the isolation of our World War II island community, much could be said and done without a whisper for many years.
I had reached the age of ten. My sister's eight and five. We were hiding in the closet, the three of us, trying to decide our next move. But how many moves can you make when you're ten, eight and five?
There are only two options: stay or go. And I knew that staying meant years more of fear, isolation and pain. Our world had narrowed to the end of a fist, broken sporadically with visits from the mans son.
The first event that precipitated our closet meeting was an incident with my youngest sister. He was mad about some infraction she had committed, so her took her by the back of the head and swung her by her hair, effectively removing a large patch at the back of her head.
Something that spoke to me, within me, at that moment, that not even he could silence, knew this was wrong despite all the guilt and the mind games my parents played. I still knew something was wrong. They tried to convince us that what was happening to us was our fault. They tried to tell us that if it weren't for our actions, these things would not happen. But I knew somewhere in the horror, the wrongness of it all.
it rang out like a large and dusty bell in my mind.
So I told my friends, I told everyone at school, and told my teachers. I told anyone who would listen. I showed them the large scab on the back of my sister's head. I showed them what he did. And then, I waited. But nothing happened, no one came. No one asked questions. Things carried on, and the nightmare of our lives carried on too.
In the second incident, shortly after, my middle sister made some error that he was angry about, he decided he wouldn't let her eat. He wouldn't for some time. When he finally did, she made herself eggs and toast but promptly threw it up. He immediately picked her up and chucked her so hard into the cupboards that the wood split in two. Then he made her clean it up, sent her to our room, and, again, she wasn't allowed to eat. At times like that, we would sneak each other food at times like that.
Such a desperate and fear-filled existence it was in those days.
The third incident occurred that evening while my two sisters were in bed, I asked the man who became my stepfather, if we could watch my favourite show, Man from Atlantis. He was in a strangely smiling mood, which made me nervous, but he said, "Yes." So, I went into the TV room and sat down to watch the show. He asked me to sit beside him, which I did, then he put his arm around me.
He began to ask me questions about how I was feeling emotionally and physically. I dared not move or not answer his questions because the repercussions could be far worse.
I told him I felt like I always did. He bent and kissed me like a man kisses a woman and then he asked me if I liked it. I responded "No," which made him laughed and squeeze me closer to him.
For the first time, I couldn't wait for my show to be over so I could escape him and go to my room. No other move was possible.
I've never felt the same ever since that day. A feeling of shame and of being dirty never left me.
So, in our closet meeting, the three of us in the dark, whispering amongst ourselves. "There was only one thing to do." I said to them, "We must leave. We must put all our pennies together, get a sleeping bag each and leave."
The idea for the three of us to go seemed like a shining beacon of light, a possibility that maybe there was something better than what we were experiencing. Anything was better.
Spurred on by fear, adrenaline and hope for something else, we quickly did our chores as if it was expected whether we were leaving or not. We had $1.31 between us, so we walked to the corner store and bought a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. No adults thought it strange or asked why three young children, each carrying a sleeping bag, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter, were walking over the bridge to leave the island community we were in.
Three young children, all ten and under, leaving one island and onto another. The total amount of our walk before exhaustion took hold, brought us to the freeway and the exit out. Underneath a highway ramp, we made up our beds. One sister was on the lookout the other two prepared peanut butter sandwiches. We swapped throughout the night watching for police or parents.
We saw niether, and no one noticed us underneath that highway ramp. By the time the morning light came, we were done. We had to go back, there was nowhere for us to go but back. We would die out there. Even as young and small as I was.
I also knew that no one would help us.
Not even her. Acually, least of all her.
The sense of trepidation and the unknown hovered over my head and the heads of my sisters as I did what I swore not to do. Lead them back...to him.
The sun's rise saw us knocking on the front door, which my mother opened. The thought occurred to me, even at age ten, that her look of tiredness was all part of the same facade she always had: "How could you do this to me? How could you behave this way?" She played the victim very well.
*********************************************************
The question comes, "Where was your mother in all this?" Nowhere. Out with her friends. Bowling. Playing cards. Nowhere. We had long ago given up trying to get her to protect us. We were wolf fodder.
The shame that I could not protect my sisters or keep walking the morning after put our escape, stayed with me for a long time. That I couldn't do what I knew needed to be done, hung on my heart like clothes on a line.
Back to the fire with the best armour, I could come up with: Anger. The years rolled out with so much more to tell. An assault on the reader of what must be told...the story of all like me.
 Recognized |
#15 October 2023 |
The story is part of an auto bio called Ghost. It can be found in my portfolio. If you wish to read, please note some chapters are difficult to absorb reader discretion is advised.
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