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Purple Bruises On A June Breeze
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Purple Bruises On A June Breeze |
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Alain DeLaCendres Member
since 1999-07-02
Posts 119Ohio |
*note: I've been away, and I owe many replies, I promise to catch up. This was my version of an "essay" about anger for my advanced composition class..Thanks. 2101 words in this... Momma always did have a way with making daddy mad. Even when she didn’t say anything she always made him mad. I guess it is the way she looks at him, the way she stands, something like that. It doesn’t matter if momma is smiling or crying, she always makes daddy mad. Just last night she made him mad again. Daddy came home early from work and momma didn’t have dinner ready, so daddy got very mad and screamed at momma. He called her lots of names, lots of bad names. Momma didn’t cry though, well...not until daddy hit her. Then she started crying. I saw her cheek this morning, there is an egg shaped bruise starting there. Those oversized sunglasses that momma sometimes wears won’t be able to hide it this time. I feel really sorry for momma, but daddy always says that he only gives momma what she deserves. Why she deserves all that screaming and hitting I don’t know, but daddy says she does and momma just nods her head and cries when daddy says so. Daddy never has hit me though. Every time after he hits momma, he flashes a smile that shows almost all of his teeth and pats my on the head and calls me his “wonderful little angel girl”. I really hope that I never make daddy mad and deserve what momma does. If I ever do, I think I’ll have to run away so daddy don’t hit me. I don’t want daddy to hit me. When daddy has friends over he never yells at momma. He just smiles at her when she brings them those cold metal cans of that icky stuff. I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s yellow and tastes kind of bitter. On the nights daddy’s friends are over, sometimes daddy laughs so loud that he wakes me up. Momma and daddy don’t know that though because if I told, momma might ask daddy to be more quiet. If she did that, I just know that daddy would get mad and hit momma. He might want to hit me too. I can’t let no one see this little book of mine. I saved my allowance for two months to buy it. Momma and daddy don’t know I have it. I bought a nice pen to go with it too. If daddy finds this, he’ll rip it to shreds and hit me and momma. He’ll know that he scares me when he yells, and he’ll know about waking me up at night too. I don’t want momma to find this either because she’ll start crying and then daddy will ask what’s wrong and we’ll both be in trouble. No one can ever see this book. Not even my bestest friends Tommy Landers or Becca Rimmles. No one, it’s just safer that way. * It has been seven years since I wrote those meek and frightened little words. The handwriting is large and sloppy, I can barely read it anymore. This little diary of mine had been completely forgotten over the years. I found it earlier today while cleaning out my closet for the move. The carpet was sticking up in the far corner, and when I pulled it up I found it. My heart almost leap out of my throat. Da had been standing in the doorway and he had almost seen it. With my heart racing like a stock car of hope, I swiftly crammed it back under the carpet and continued packing my clothes. I waited until da went to bed and got it back out. I should fill in the gaps between then and now. First, I was only ten years old when I wrote that first part. I spent two nights hiding under my blanket waiting for any kind of noise to stop in momma and da’s room, then crept and got my flashlight and began to write. My little child’s mind did not know why it was writing those words, maybe just because it thought they were true. Tears are burning my eyes and smearing my make-up. Remembering everything still hurts. Especially what happened to momma. How could I have ever thought for even one second that da had any goodness inside of him even then? The ignorant bliss of youth, I suppose. I stopped writing in this diary because of what da did to momma. I guess I felt guilty when it happened, like that had been my punishment for writing those blasphemous words. Less than a week after I had hidden away the diary, momma died. Da found out that momma was pregnant again. Never for the rest of my life will I forget that night seven years ago. Like da’s “wonderful little angel girl”, I had been watching cartoons while we waited for dinner to be done. The mental picture of momma looking up at da with eyes like those of a sheep before the slaughterer, she whispered the news to him. I remember the smile on her face being knocked away by da’s fist. Dear God in Heaven, how he beat her. Screams ripped form my little child’s throat like dry paper being torn to pieces. His fists swung and swung, every punch hitting momma in a new place. Whenever da started hitting momma in the stomach, she crumbled to the cold linoleum. Da didn’t stop there, he started kicking her stomach next. He kicked, and kicked, and kicked for what seemed forever. There had been so much blood. Never before or since have I seen so much blood come from only one person. Back then I didn’t know what was happening to momma, I thought she would be fine. Now I know what was happening; she had a miscarriage. That was not blood on that floor so much as it had been a baby. I watched my momma lay there and die, along with my unborn sibling. Da just kept right on kicking momma and screaming at her until she stopped moving. Knowing now what I did not know then, I like to tell myself that momma stopped moving because she had passed out from the tremendous loss of blood. Every night I tell myself that, but I do not really believe it, it just lets me sleep. When momma had finally stopped moving, da called the hospital for an ambulance. Da was lucky that night, or maybe he had known what he was doing from the start. I don’t know and it does not matter. What does is that da had beaten momma in front of the stairs in the kitchen that come from the upstairs. He told the people at the hospital that his wife had fallen all the way down the stairs while running down them because she had smelled dinner burning. His voice became convincingly hysteric when he screamed at them to hurry with the ambulance because she had been pregnant and was bleeding a lot. Lies, it was all lies. Momma’s death certificate even says that she died from bleeding to death. No one knows that she bled to death because she hemorrhaged when da beat her, no one but da and I; and I know da will never tell. Momma was buried a week later. Da became a calm man after momma’s funeral; he stopped yelling and kind of withdrew into himself. It just makes me sick to think of how he could change so much after what he had done. Yet even now, I do not believe for one second that da was sorry for killing momma, he just put on a good act. I really can’t complain I suppose. At least da didn’t start hitting me after momma died. In fact, we hardly even spoke to each other after the funeral. Da began ignoring me, and I was glad. Any more, da just comes home from work every day now and makes himself something for dinner, then sits in front of the television for the rest of the night. He spoke to me for the first time in over a month last night when he asked if I ever wanted him to remarry. The question had caught me by surprise, but I answered him true all the same: I told him “My momma is dead.” That had not been the answer he had wanted. His mouth turned downwards into a deep frown, but he did not say anything else to me. Now I have to write down the hardest part. This is going to be even harder than telling about momma. I am running away tonight. It is now around eleven thirty at night and da is already in bed, I checked on him before coming into my room to write this. In three hours, at two thirty in the morning, I am going to climb out of my window and run. It is only fair that I explain why I am finally leaving. Late last night, around midnight, da came into my bedroom. He closed the door so quietly that I never even heard him. I do not want to write the rest of this...but I have to. My tears are falling onto the small pages of this diary and mixing with the ink from my old fountain pen, smearing my words as I write them. I have to write them though. After da had crept into my room, he wasted no time. He threw himself on top of me in an attempt to rape me. I screamed, but his huge hands covered my mouth so that no sound came out. My frantic hands swept across the head board of my bed until they closed around my telephone. The bell inside dinged like a liberty bell as the plastic outer covering exploded on da’s head. He voiced a strangled grunt, but I was not satisfied. Remember my “bestest friend” Tommy Landers? Well, about two months ago he made me a long, thin metal cylinder around ten inched long so that I could protect myself if ever need be. I always keep it under my pillow and last night I took it from it’s hiding place and hit da over the head with it four times. His body went slack as he fell into unconsciousness, his lust thwarted. Thank God in Heaven for Tommy. I left immediately and spent the rest of the night at Becca’s house. That is when I worked out the plan to run away with Tommy. I called him from Becca’s house and we talked about it forever. I think that we are going to get away, but only time will tell. I will climb out of my window in less than two and a half hours now. When my feet hit the ground, I am going to run like the June breeze blowing around out there two blocks south of here to the corner by Tommy’s house. We will get into Tommy’s Chevy truck and just go. Our plan is to drive all night and all day, then stop wherever we are then. From there we will call Tommy’s mother and father to explain what we have done and were we are at. Next, I will file charges against my da for attempted rape, and in my best attempt to put my momma’s soul to rest, I will also file murder charges against him. If the Lord sees it fit for all of this to be done, then it will be done. I will not give in. This diary is coming with me. In about another month I will open it back up and write of what has happened since. By then, I hope that my da’s anger will be in check and he will be on his way to prison. His anger has destroyed my life, the life momma could have had, and I will not make the same mistake. It is funny, because even now I am not mad at him. There is no anger in me towards for, none at all because I have trained myself to lock anger away and stomp it out so that it could not get out of control. If I fail, I will not get angry, but I will be doomed. Either I will have to stay on the run for a few years, or I will have to go back to my da. After what I plan to do, going back to da is not an option. I will see this through to the end, for better or worse. Wish me luck. ------------------ Tout s'en va, tout passe, l'eau coule, et le couer oublie. |
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| © Copyright 1999 Alain DeLaCendres - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Nicole Senior Member
since 1999-06-23
Posts 1835Florida |
Oh my goodness...this is excellent. It held me captive throughout. Thank you for posting it! |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Wow! WOW! WOW! For the first time in a while, I am left speechless. My jaw hangs down, because I was so impacted by this that I can't spare the attention to close my mouth. This has to be one of the most powerful pieces I've read! And I love the way you did it in first person, it really puts across the terror, even though it's hidden in somewhat of a blase monotone. I truly hope that this is not a true story for you. No one should ever be victim to that kind of abuse. If it isn't from your own experience, know that I still feel for that little girl and that blossoming woman, and applaud her courage in the face of such evil. Well written. Well written indeed! Christopher |
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DreamEvil Member Elite
since 1999-06-22
Posts 2396 |
Just echo the above in it's entirety. Excellent rendition of a most brutal subject. ------------------ Pain is life, life is short, I will endure. DreamEvil© |
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hoot_owl_rn Member Patricius
since 1999-07-05
Posts 10750Glen Hope, PA USA |
This was wonderfully written. I literally sat her and bawled like a baby while captivated by your writing. BRAVO!!!! ------------------ "In the depths of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer" ~Albert Camus |
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Elizabeth
Moderator
Member Ascendant
since 1999-06-07
Posts 6871Minnesota |
Wow, Alain-it's wonderful. It's so sad, but you wrote it so well. Will say more when I think of the best words in which to say it. ------------------ *Elizabeth* "Dwelt a maid belov'd and cherish'd by high and low, But with autumn leaf she perish'd, long time ago..." |
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