She's Got Legs III

Afternoon melts into evening as I sit and wait and worry.  I hear everyone come home at various times, talking and moving about downstairs, totally unaware of my misery upstairs alone in my room.  Unaware of my existence.

"Dinner is ready!", I hear announced from the dining room.  Do I go down without being told to?  Maybe it was said so loudly for my benefit, or maybe it was said loudly because whoever the announcer was noticed I wasn't there and had no idea I was upstairs in the middle of punishment.  What do I do?  I walk ever so lightly down each step so as not to be heard and therefor able to change my mind and run back up at any moment.  I silently enter the dining room and Dad looks up. He says very slowly and deliberately. "You don't eat with the rest of us.  Go to your room and you will be called if there is anything left." "Yes", is my only reply as I return to my room, glad for his decision.  Dinner would have been tense and unbearable with snide comments rushing at me with each bite of food that I had to choke down anyway.  Anxiety always makes eating difficult. 

After about an hour I'm called down to eat at the empty table and I choke down what's on my plate.  Then I quietly clear my dishes, return to my room and continue the agonizing wait.

Darkness slowly envelops my room and my eyes adjust.  As my head hangs down, eyes to the floor, the dark gets a bit darker and my heart jumps as I realize Dad's frame has adumbrated my doorway casting a large shadow in front of me.  "Go to my room and get the broomstick, Puke," is snarled at me.  I run to his room and look frantically for what's been ordered, Though I know what this means after the use of it to break Davey's legs, I still hold out hope that if I find it quickly the pain that will be inflicted with it, might be just a bit less.  Aha!  There it is resting against the corner by Mom's sewing machine.  I snatch it up and run back with my arm proudly outstretched to hand it to him--I found it, yayy, isn't that great? 

At least he chooses the back of my legs for batting practice rather than the front as he did with Davey. "Pull your pants down and bend over, " I'm ordered and I am instantly mortified.  Pull my pants down??? I know what this means and I think that surely it won't cause so much damage on my bottom as it caused to Davey's shins. I've actually never been spanked on my bottom before--Dad usually stomach-punches or face-slaps. He's being easy on me, but this is humiliating. Full of embarrassment, I let them drop toward the floor then lay the top half of my body atop my bed as I've been instructed through angry gestures. 

I immediately understand why I was ordered to bend over onto the bed as the force of all of Dad's strength brings the broomstick, baseball bat style, to a screeching halt at the back of my thighs. I quickly realize that he is NOT being easy on me. Had I not had the bed under me, the force of the hit would have sent me across the room.  Pain sears from the point of impact, both legs mid-thigh, and radiates up and down my legs.  Dad continues his batting practice on my legs, swinging with all of his might, until his might tires.  I grip the bedclothes and try to be tough through the pain because if any sound is emitted I know the punishment will intensify.  Fortunately he's not making me count this time because I know my voice would never allow it.  The hits range from just above the backs of my knees to the bottom of my bottom.

Then, just like that, it stops and he walks away.  I can tell from the heaviness of his breath that he has only stopped from pure exhaustion.  I remain in position for what seems like an eternity, questioning myself as to whether I should move without having been given permission to do so.  I finally decide, after hearing him descend the stairs, that it's safe to move.  I stand upright, ever so gingerly, and wince from the pain of my jeans touching the tenderized skin on the backs of my legs as I pull my jeans back on. 

I stand in place, not daring to move in any way lest the jeans touch against my skin again.  I stand there in the darkness as my family members prepare for and go to bed, one by one.  When all the lights have been turned off and there is no noise for what I deem to be long enough to move, I undress, very carefully, and put on my long nightgown.  Even it causes me to flinch as it breezes against my skin.  I lay on my stomach on top of my blanket and try to sleep.  Eventually I succeed only to awaken again and again as I move, forgetting the pain in my sleep.  Morning finally comes and as I lay wondering if I will be allowed to go to school, Dad enters my room.  I jump, through the pain, to attention and am told to get ready for school.  And so I do...

This is one of the rocks that creates some of my brook's best music.  I like this one right where it is.

Jen ;-)

She's Got Legs: II

I roam uneasily from room to room, sit for a few seconds on the edge of anything resembling a seat, then stand again, wring my hands, fight back the urge to puke, and walk to another room.  I go over and over in my head what I will say even though I know Ill never get the chance.  Even if I did, my fear would make me foget my lines anyway.  So I sit, stand, sit, walk, go to the kitchen and think about eating something as I stare blankly into the fridge and cabinets.  Deciding on a spoonful of peanut butter, I remove a spoon from the drawer and get down the Jif, but as soon as I unscrew the lid the aroma hits my nose and travels to the pit of my bile-filled stomach.  The acid that has been multiplying in there makes its way to my throat and I run for the bathroom.  As I vomit, I plead for God to make it all stop.  And stop it does, as I freeze to the sound of the outer front door rattling closed.  I come-to and quickly wipe my face from tears and regurgitated stomach acid and bolt back to the kitchen to return the spoon and peanut butter to their proper places.  My throat burns from the bile recently forced through it, but the sound of the heavy inner front door locking into place replaces the pain with a lump of pure terror.  I simply stand frozen in the kitchen, my thoughts taking over.  What do I say?  Where do I go?  Do I dare to move?

I hear his heavy footseps lumber up the stairs.  With each step my body relaxes a little more.  Oxygen slowly escapes my lungs where it's been held captive.  Maybe he doesn't know I'm home.  Maybe Mom answered the call and covered for me.  Maybe Mrs. Gregaydis just said she called to scare me.  Maybe..."JENNIFER!!!!!!"

Maybe not, I surrender as I rocket up the stairs to the master bedroom.

"Yes?", I ask with the glimmer of hope that one of my earlier maybes will hold true, but knowing inside that the maybe not would end up winning out.

"Why did I get a call from your teacher today?" he asks in his own special cynical way.  Now here's the kicker with this particular question; it has previously been used to trick my brothers and me into false admissions when, in fact, no call was ever actually received.  Is it a trick?  Is it worth the gamble that I am caught lying by saying I have no idea why Mrs. Gregaydis would call?  School is fantastic, in fact?  Do I feel lucky?  Well, do I, Punk?  I decide that no, it is not worth the risk--chances are too good that he already knows.

"I didn't do my homework?" I half tell, half ask the half truth with which I choose to answer.  I left off the "for the past couple of months" part, but I can see from the immediate tightening of his lips that he already knows this.  Or they could be the result of incorrectly chosen words or tone.  Not only does each word I utter need to be precisely chosen, but its tone must also be perfect--an equal balance of strength, respect, and submission, spoken at the perfect volume to be heard loudly and clearly, but without giving any air of anger or sarcasm.  Improperly spoken words can prove to be very painful.  I didn't choose carefully enough.  I see his hand move and I try to brace myself but I'm not quick enough--I blink and every molecule of air is forced from my lungs, upward and out of my mouth by a fist the size of my entire 9-year-old abdomen.  I'm left with an exploding feeling in my chest, throat and head.

"Do you think you're too good to do homework, Puke?"

Having no air in my lungs renders me unable to utter a word.  I open my mouth and I try but nothing will come out.  My right cheek burns from an angry open-handed whack.  "Don't play games.  Answer me, Puke."

"No" finally crackles from my lungs that are refilling entirely too slowly.  The hatred that I'm feeling for him at this particular moment must be radiating through my expression because his expression changes almost to one of disbelief.

"What are you looking at?", he seethes.

I'm a bit caught off guard because I'm not understanding the question.  "I'm looking at you because you're speaking to me", I try to sound meek and timid though inside I feel like a rudely awakened bear.

"Wipe that look off your face", he says in disgust.  I try to soften my expression by widening my eyes and it seems to work.  "Get out of my sight you disgusting puke".  I'm happy to oblige and back quickly through the door then scurry to the sanctuary of my room where I sit on the edge of my bed waiting to be called again.   I know, of course, it's not over.

She's Got Legs

I am reposting the following post because I am finally ready to move on with my story--I'll post the continuations in the next few days...Thanks for reading about the rocks that make my life's music ;-) Jen

SUNDAY, MARCH 7, 2010

She's Got Legs

 A few months have passed since my first real punishment.  I'm still in the fourth grade physically, but I haven't really been there since I became aware of the terrible injustices that exist for me.  Dad can pull me out any time he pleases, teachers cannot be trusted, and the other kids cannot relate to me nor I to them.  I have come to despise all that school is--bullies, cliques, know-it-all teachers who really don't know the half of it, and going over and over the same material I've already learned a million times.  School is stupid and I will no longer be a part of it.  It used to be my sanctuary, my happy place where I was admired and appreciated.  Now it gives me nothing so I will give it nothing back.

Mrs. Gregaydis, however, disagrees.  She lets my laissez-faire attitude go for quite a while because, really, my grades are not suffering--I'm still getting perfect grades on all of my tests even though I haven't done any homework in months because, like I said, I've learned this material a million times before.  But she can no longer stand my lack of work and poor attitude--don't get me wrong, I'm never rude or disrespectful, just disillusioned and maybe a bit sad.  After all, school has always been my escape and now that's been taken from me.

She makes the phone call home.  Again.  Damn her.  At least this time she waits until it's time to go home to tell me, so I don't have to stew in in all day.  How kind of her.

I pray that Mom answered the phone because usually Mom will keep things from Dad if she knows the information would be detrimental to us.  She's one of us in my mind.  One of the victims.  One of the weak ones.  It's Dad against the rest of us. 

My walk home fills me with stomach knots and a throat hardened with stifled tears.  Each step feels as though someone has strapped 10lb. weights to my scrawny legs.  As I near the corner where I can see the front of my house, I see that there is no car parked in front!  No car = no Dad = no punishment!  For now.  I'll take it! 

The weights are lifted from my ankles and my stomach knots loosen a bit (they never really disappear.  Never).  I get to the front porch, constantly looking back, expecting to see Dad pulling up in the car behind me. If he does pull up, what do I do?  What do I say?  The knots begin to retighten until I get into the sanctity of the empty house.  The big, empty house is heaven with only Thor, our Great Dane, to greet me.  How I wish he was one of those protective dogs like I've seen in movies and on tv.  But he's afraid like the rest of us.  He's been beaten down by Dad one too many times. He, too, is one of the weak, subservient, subjects of Master Dad.  Sorry Thor and thanks for the hug--I really need it right now.I 

Thor, you are one of those strong currents that make beautiful music as it passes by my big rocks.  I can still feel the strength and warmth of your neck beneath my hugs.

Jen ;-)