I'm tearing at my shirt watching this unfold powerless to do anything about it.
I was screaming in my head "STOP!!!" Followed by "I hate you. I hate you I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."
It never stopped. It just went on and on and on. It seemed like the bleak years ahead of us would go on forever.
Since that day in the social service office, all three of us looked at one another knowing without saying, that we were going back... it was inevitable. There was no choice. There was no recourse.
We had resigned ourselves to our fate since that day as there was no other choice open to us. So we tiptoed through the hours hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.
My stepfather was not a stupid man; it was difficult to get away with anything.
What most would consider a small minor infraction, he would consider a grievous sin. We tried, though, because, in the end, the punishment was always the same. Truth or lie, his fist came anyway.
My middle sister, crying and in pain, slowly climbed the stairs back to our room. Later that evening, I brought her some food without them knowing. We did that for each other depending on who was in trouble that day.
By this time, we girls were put up in the partially insulated attic with three cots (my youngest sister returned every second weekend) and a small dresser, nothing more. A four-bedroom house, three girls in an attic room. Stepbrother with his room, TV room and office aside from living room and large kitchen with dining area. no room for girls, it seemed.
I loved my stepbrother. He was six months younger than me and the closest thing to an ally I could ever get at that time.
Whenever he visited, it was a joyous time for me for two reasons, one I got to see my friend and stepbrother and two, he wouldn't hit us when my stepbrother was around.
I often thought over the years that perhaps that was a selfish reason for wanting him around simply for protection.
I did truly love him and we got along very well. Our particular brand of humour kept us smiling at times when we could.
But there was a marked difference between my stepbrother and us girls.
In the eyes of my stepfather and even my mother, we were considered lower class in the household hierarchy. The treatment of us and the treatment of my stepbrother were polar opposites. He could do no wrong.
Whenever there was a mistake made on his part, it was a minor setback, and punishment was minimal. Preferential treatment, his room and showing love when there was none for us.
I made a weak attempt once to talk to my stepbrother about what his father was doing but, from the expression on his face, I knew I couldn't utter another word.
Who wants to hear bad things about their father? So why should he feel shitty too? I chose not to burden him anymore with what was happening to us.
That was part of my anger. My rage at my stepfather and my anger at my mother. Sometimes more so for her for her failure to protect us and her unwillingness to deal with the truth as it was.
It finally dawned on me that it didn't matter how hard we tried, how much truth we gave or how much we catered to our parents. The fist would fly regardless.
Then came a new nasty engineered and designed for his amusement.
The new regime was:
Be naked,
Be bent over the bed
Wait for the steel buckle to connect with our bodies.
After that first time, walking was difficult. My back, my butt and the tops of my thighs were aching from being hit. When asked I would ignore the question or I would lie. But not always.
My rage was so great that there were times I just couldn't help opening my mouth. I opened it to the family...again. I opened it to the kids around me. Inevitably, I would go back to my shell again and lie. Now here was the stupid thing about telling others what was going on.
The moment the words came out of my mouth I felt like I was lying. Such was the control over my psyche that the man had. Truly made us believe that what we were telling others was made up in our heads but I knew better.
I never stopped knowing better, not for one second.
My stepfather continued to poke and pinch my growing chest All the while, pretending to hit me and pull away his fist at the last second, laughing the entire time.
Now he was doing it to my middle sister. There was no end to the humiliation.
My parents were gone more often than not by then. Almost every night they were out to one social event after another.
In some ways, it was better they were gone. A reprieve of a few hours. But then we were alone and what if we did something wrong? What if something went wrong?
Anything that happened they instantly looked to us as the perpetrator. Judge and Jury, no defence.
If they stayed home, they usually had company. They would play cards have drinks laugh at each other and play loud music. One night I dared to ask them to please turn the music down. A screaming tirade was the result. The only reason I did not get hit was because they had company.
Every few days we would be awakened in the night because of something he had found that was dirty. Usually, it was dishes.
He would find a dirty dish in the cupboard and then empty every cupboard in the kitchen and have us wash everything again before we went to bed.
But here's the catch and a little fun he'd like to have, we were only allowed to put three drops of dish soap in the water. God help you if you have a greasy dish.
He used to come up behind us and test the dishwater temperature with his finger. If it wasn't hot enough, we would each get a knuckle in the head and everything pulled out of the cupboards again.
One time he punched me so hard right in the nose, that I thought the blood would never stop falling. I remember staring at my shoes and seeing the blood pour. Red droplets redecorating them in what used to be a tan color.
I started to wonder again like I did at the age of five. I thought maybe death was better .
We were rail thin and had shadows around our eyes. We were overworked and exhausted. But, all through the years, this mantra played in my mind...
This will end... This will end... This will...end.
