The Weeping One (MXW)

Stolen Innocence

***This chapter, as well as many will convey the true evil and darkness that sweeps thru our world. The subject matter is extremely sensitive, detailed and triggering. These are real triggers from a real girl who lost her innocence time and time again***

***Aubrey Winters***

Let me offer you a glimpse into my past, it is not pretty. Do not fear. It has shaped me into the person I am today. I am a proud woman of 22. I still live vibrantly. I love ferociously. I laugh exponentially. Do not suffer. Breathe thru my story and remember you are not alone as I relive it every second of every day. Yet, I could not bring myself to change it if I was offered the chance.

I can remember as far back as my 18 month body, however those small fractures of my spirit were not nearly as consequential as my life as a 4 year old.

My four year old self-with 22 years of wisdom

I was so small and so playful. I had honey blonde hair, a blinding smile and the truest green eyes. My laugh filled the air of others around me. A determined little child, I always spent my waking moments serving others around me.

A servant's heart. This was my gift. I knew from this age that I bore the gift of hospitality, compassion and pure love.

I felt it. It was spoke over me in midnight prayers. I beamed with joy every moment hoping that  my actions would elicit warm smiles and appreciation from others.

The problem with innocence..... others seek to destroy it. It is the most precious gift, sought out and shoplifted from the possessor.

Oh my mother, the source of my love and pride. I loved her with a reverence of gods. She was everything to me. I felt her pain and anguish. Her depression weighed heavily upon my small heart. She was so small and so absolutely powerful.

She was not a doting mother. I loved her all the same. The demons she housed inside the gilded cage of her heart were vicious. They often tore a wake of grief upon her small frame. She utterly suffered at their hands.

In these times, doctors did not freely address this frightful disease. No medicine was offered. No relief for a tortured soul, would come.

My mom, she sought healing in fleshly ways. Her heart ached for comfort. She often fell to preying hands. She bounced from one abuser to another. They pierced her precious heart with violence in one form or another.

The day she met him, I do not know. The day I met him, I saw a savior. Instantly, I was charmed. He brought my innocent soul so many smiles in those first few months. Our first meeting,  he came bearing gifts for me and my three siblings. Two coloring books and a brand new box of 64 count Crayola crayons, that's what it took to deceive the golden heart of a precious child.

He had the most beautiful black and white border collie. A doggie, which he shared with us kids. An angelic beast, her name was Bear. Bear brought so many sweet memories. Yet, just another gift to open the innocence of a child's heart. She was used for darkness. She was a tool of manipulation.

My mom moved us in to his condo almost instantly. She was so happy. She knew she was providing her children with a fatherly figure, one that she failed to provide two times before. Being a single mom to four kids under the age of 6 must have been hard. I can't imagine the strength it took for her.

Unfortunately, the evil she introduced to our lives would take 8 years to finally reveal its true form. He was a wicked soul. Drugs pulsed thru his veins and blackened his spirit. The manifestation of poison took its form. A true satanic demon, walking upon the earth.

It began with discipline. I get the idea, a small act of pain embeds a lesson carried in the shape of a scar. The problem with pain, it does not diminish, it transforms. Physical pain becomes emotional lesions. If not nurtured, they become festering wounds that reopen with little effort.

Discipline is an act of love. Hands that love, usher punishment to create character. But, as with any recipe, all ingredients must be present in precise measurements to succeed with desired results.

Love can not truly live in evil. It will present itself, beg for nourishment and die from starvation.

Drugs will infiltrate your system. They tear down your defenses and steal your emotions. They coat your sensory receptors, and morph them into a false euphoric state. They create division and reek havoc where they touch.

There is no excuse here. Let me make that clear. I do not excuse the choices of my guardians with drug and disease. Theses are just the details surrounding my childhood.

I remember the first time like it was this morning. The scene was chaos. He was passed out after his coke binge the night before. My mother thoroughly exhausted from her graveyard shift at a diner. Four innocent children were left to fend for themselves. A five year old looking after a four year old, a three year old and a one year old. A recipe for chaos.

We tried multiple times to wake the slumbering pair. Our tummies roaring with the ache of hunger. It was now noon. They had not stirred even once. We were locked in a room. The door tied shut, to keep us in. Our full bladders were pressed against our growling bellies. We needed relief.

My sister, only five, got the door open enough to release the restraint. We sought freedom. She went to the room of the sleeping adults and tried again to rouse them from their dreams. Yet, it was fruitless.

We scoured the kitchen cabinets for anything we could eat. Unfortunately, they kept the food out of reach. We went back into our room, defeated. The mistake was already made. The door was open. Our mischievous three and one year old brothers were already released. My sister and I did nothing to reign them in.

We didn't actually know what they were up to. We didn't really care. We were coloring, they were out of our hair. We only came back to reality as a terrifying cry racked our youngest siblings mouth. A horrific whimper of excruciating pain. We ran to see what was wrong.

The site was explosive. He was standing on the stove. The large eye of the appliance glowing a bright red of inferno heat. He made no effort to move. His tiny foot was burnt to the metal. His searing flesh filling the kitchen with a stomach turning scent.

The refrigerator door was wide open. The plastic bowl melted to another stove eye. Raw eggs splattered the floor. Bologna seared into the melted plastic. Condiments were covering the counters, spilled within broken jars. Bread was covering the floor. It was easy to see their intentions. Two small mouths desperate for food, unleashed the beast.

In anger, my moms boyfriend fled the room. One would think it was worry for the child standing on his burning pier. Unfortunately, nothing was farther from the truth. He ripped my brothers tiny body from the heated coil. And his large hands began his assault. He left no inch of flesh unpunished. The screams of agony filled the air. My small brother was left on the bedroom floor writhing in pain.

His wrath did not end. Everyone of us children laid in a heap on the floor. Not one untouched inch of our skin could be seen. The horror of hearing those screams of anguish would embed the first of many lesions on our innocent brains.

The neighbors heard the commotion. One dared to check on the four small children. But, they fell captive to the monster's charm and left without investigation. Another neighbor must have heard the scene unfold. Department of  Family and Children Service (DFACS) showed up shortly. We had already been warned. One single word uttered to divulge the truth, we would be beaten again and ripped from each other to be given to foster homes. Nothing is more persuasive than fear.

DFACS left that day, a warning to the demon. A simple threat that any more incidents would open an investigation. A threat is nothing more than motivation to cover a crime. They did their job well. We would never have them called again. We knew the fury that would be unleashed.

***end of 4 year old perspective***