Music is a part of life, a part of who we are. You can go anywhere in the world and music will follow you. You can't escape it. Whenever you hear a song, it makes you wonder, is this song meant for me? Is this the song that represents who I am, shar...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
-24th March 2009
Everything hurt. It was usually pretty bad, but never this bad. He never hit my face. People would ask questions. He didn't like questions. Questions lead to unwanted attention. "Unwanted attention will ruin everything," is what he tells me.
"If anyone asks what happened to you, you tell them you fell. Got it?" He always reminds me, and then proceeds to demonstrate what would happen if I didn't follow what he said.
Those were always the worst nights. When he was drunk and had nothing else to vent his anger on. Just his ten-year-old son. His small, defenceless child who had done nothing yet apparently was to blame for everything.
His terrible job.
His lack of money.
His resorting to selling drugs.
His lack of love life.
The death of his wife.
I'd been four when it happened. A fatal crash with a drunk driver. Killed on impact. Just like that. Gone.
He didn't take it well.
It started small. A smack on the back of the head if I did something wrong. Then he lost his job. The drugs followed. He never took them. He had alcohol to drown away his misery. Funny how the thing that killed his wife became his vice. The thing he always went to. Every day. Morning and night.
I stayed away from the house a lot. My best friend Kyle was more than happy to have me over, his parents thrilled their son had such a good friend. I felt like part of the family, that I belonged there. They treated me like I belonged there.
He didn't notice for a while. I felt happier than I had been in years. When he did notice my frequent absence, he started taking me to and from school, locking me in my room for the rest of the day. No food. No company. One toilets break for 15 minutes.
Then one day he forgot to lock my door. I probably should have stayed, but I didn't want to. I hated my life. Even my ten-year-old self knew this wasn't supposed to happen. So I packed a bag. Essentials only. And I left. I walked down the stairs and to the front door. My freedom. I would go to Kyle's and stay there.
My hand hadn't even touched the handle before I was slammed against the door. My nose burst at the force. My head span, black spots flashing in front of me. My whole body ached as I was held in place against the door.
The stench of alcohol swamped me as I felt his breath in my ear. "Where do you think you're going boy?" His voice was a cold, menacing growl.
I tried to form coherent words but nothing came out except pained whimpers.
"Aw, is the little boy crying? Pathetic. You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for your whore of a mother. That bitch wanted a child so badly. Who was I to say no? And then she went and got herself killed, leaving you. Everything is your fault. Every little thing. It should have been you. Maybe it will be you. Would you like that?"
Every word he said was punctuated by a shove into the door. I felt like my whole body was bruised and broken, if I wasn't shoved so hard into the door I wouldn't be standing.
"What were you going to do, huh boy? Snitch to the cops? Cry wolf? Do I need to remind you of what happens to little boys when their tongues are loose?" he threatens, turning me around and slamming me back against the door, squeezing his hand around my neck.
I was struggling to breathe, the black spots becoming frequent blackouts. I could feel myself slipping. at ten years old, I would die at his hands. I struggled. I may not be able to breathe much longer, so I needed to do something.
I wasn't strong. I was ten, just a little boy who had gone through too much. So when I kicked him in the knee, I didn't expect him to fall down, let alone shout out in pain. I fell onto my hands and knees, gulping in air like I was chugging water after a long run.
Which is what I did. I ran. Bolted out the door and ran. I felt numb. The pain wasn't forgotten, but for now I was free of it. I didn't think I had long. What damage could I have possibly managed?
I went to the only place I felt safe. When the door finally opened after my continuous knocking, Kyle's mum, Annika, took one look at my ragged, beaten state, before pulling me inside and calling the police. I never had to see him again, Kyle's family made sure of that. They've been amazing to me. I always I feel like I disrupted their life. But they never make me feel like I'm not part of the family. I'll always be thankful.
***
"Now, I just can't believe that after everything, he's being let out early. I can't-" I take a shuddering breath, hanging my head. "They won't make me go back with him, will they?"
Jessica gives me a look, as if to say "why the fuck would you think that?"
"After everything that's happened, I'd be surprised if he's allowed within a mile of you."
This makes me smile. Of course she's right. I was too caught up to remember that I don't have to live under the same roof as him ever again, jail or not. It just took someone thinking straight for me to remember.
"Thank you," I say to her, hoping she understands how much I mean it.
