Don't call me a victim - - Somewhere To Write

Posted by Anonymous on 2012/12/14 under Uncategorized

I made a place in my head, where I could go, when he came to my bed and rutted.

He wasn’t there, there was only me, with my books, radio and rocking chair.

I stayed as long as I could. At least until he’d done his worse, and left me his mess to clean.

I thought at first, it was because he was drunk. So drunk, he kept wetting himself.
I thought that was the worst.

Then I tried to say no. So, he hit me. I tried to tell her, but he was there.

Staring. And watching. And reminding me of his promise.

He promised to kill me if I ever told. Then he’d kill her, and them.

It was all my own fault. Obviously. Otherwise, why?

Oh yes, he told me. It was because I wasn’t his. He wouldn’t do that to his own.

Until he did. That was my fault too. I’d turned 15 and locked my door.

I’d realised a few years earlier, that this wasn’t standard behaviour.

But I knew, somewhere deep inside, that it wasn’t my fault. I should have been protected.

She told me years later, she thought there was something going on.

But it wasn’t the kind of thing you like to talk about. Still, she knew

And did nothing. Except beat me every chance she got. If there was no chance, she made one.

My own favourite agony was having to fetch the implement to be beaten with.

By the time I was 8, I knew that it didn’t hurt as much if I faced the wall,

so that she could only beat my back. It might have ended sooner, if only I hadn’t refused to cry.

I was stubborn. Determined. And planning me escape.

I made it out when I was 18. I SURVIVED a childhood devised by demons.

I have my own home, husband and cats.

So don’t call me a victim. I’m a survivor, and I’m still here long after he’s gone.

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