A Destructive Path

Before the day the life I knew had been ripped away, life could not be simple. My body had constantly been beaten, and my mind tortured. My father grew to be a brutish man despite his appearance, and he was particularly clever. I relish none of the memories locked away in a cell in the back of my mind, only to have them escape and mock my already scarred soul. My mother could not prove to be strong against him either, as she had turned to alcohol to calm the empty shell she had become. To this day, I still question why a kid had been left to stand against an abomination with a power that I could not fathom. Despite these things, my sister, like a gleam of sunshine, gave me hope. It had become my duty to protect her, and keep a monster like my father from diminishing her strength and her purity. Always being the comforter to my sister as well as my mother, I had no room for weakness. Even to this day, I question whether or not I will become the heartless and empty shell that my father so closely resembles. While it may seem as if I am perhaps exaggerating, I can assure you that I am not. I cannot say that I was honestly shocked by my fathers actions.

It came to be an expectation of the cruelty my father shown so well. By the night that all that had become normal to me, there were already three attempts where my father had tried to claim the life of my mother. He already claimed her soul, stealing the very gleam that resonated within me and gave me comfort and hope of a better day. To this day, my mother remains that same empty shell. This serves as a reminder of how the cold reality of this world can take away the humanity of even the strongest willed person, consuming the soul of any who dare to make this world a better place.

As a young child I always treasured the moments I had away from home, even if it been for a short period of time. Afterwards, I came home to a world I despised with a hatred that can only be bred for a life such as mine. Through my words, you would assume that for a person in such a disposition as mine all would be hopeless. To be honest, for years I had always believed that very same train of thought. I was approximately around the age of 5, when I had witnessed an instance that had showed me the true nature of my father. For years until that day, I had always believed that my mother's addiction to alcohol was always her choice, and I played my role in it

as well. Upon witnessing the actions of my unforgiving father, I learned otherwise. My father always believed there is no room for error, and even the slightest error should be rewarded with a horrendously unforgiving punishment. I always felt a deep hatred towards my father and mother. In time I began to learn that it was not my mother, nor I that had been the cause of my mother's alcoholism. In fact, the anger and hatred my father had shown towards my mother made the option of alcohol rather enticing to her.

Throughout my life, my grandparents had shown me love, but they couldn't understand why I could not reciprocate love. I cannot explain to you why I do not show love. Somewhere along the lines I lost myself, and did not even know where to start looking. Sure I could tell you my name, my age, even my social security number for that matter. But to ask me what I stood for, and what I hoped to accomplish was impossible for me to answer truthfully. As for my sister, I always had a reason to be proud and envious. She has dreams and Thompson 33 goals, and is still determined to pursue them. No matter the consequences, my sister will meet each of her goals. One day my mother had asked my sister where she had gotten such determination. My mother hoped that my sister would look up to her, only to have been disappointed when she heard the words, Bubba taught me that! In that moment, having been 10 at the time, I fell to my knees and wept. To be honest, it was a moment in which any older brother would cry. I felt a renewed strength stir within me at that moment. Upon hearing those words I had a renewed determination to be the best big brother that I was capable of being and eventually being a better all around person. At first glance, the monster in my tale did not seem like he was even mentally capable of such atrocities. To the public, he was the ever so faithful church attendee, a caring father, and perhaps the ideal son. To be honest, I believe there are some people who still have trouble believing the gentleman they met could commit such unspeakable horrors. If I were to tell you the entire story, I am quite certain that you perhaps would not believe it either. After all, I found out there was more to the story than even I could have anticipated. I was too frightened to tell my tale, for the page on which my story is written does not lie within this paper constructed from leaves and other miscellaneous items, but from the very skin that covers my flesh. The words were written in blood, sweat, and tears, forever staining the canvas that is me, leaving it scarred and torn asunder. When I earlier stated that my father was a clever man, I do not believe I clarified the extent to which he was clever. My body was beaten and bruised, yet no broken bones and a story for each bruise if anyone asked. He battered, raped, and tormented my mother on a daily basis. He instilled a fear unlike any witnessed by only a select few, who inflict the same pain upon their loved ones. If he did not use fear to deceive us, he belittled us into believing that we deserved a punishment for the trouble we somehow caused. I do not believe that he was trying to

convince us, but to justify himself for his unreasonable actions. For as long as I can recall I not only hated him, but those who did not believe me, nor the woman who suffered the same fate I did. My mother was considered Schizophrenic. She was believed to be delusional by a professional who witnessed the demented monster she claimed to have married. At that time, he actually seemed as a gentle and caring person. Believing there was no possibility of him having been the one who had inflicted the wounds, but believed that she had been the one who had inflicted the wounds to herself. By this time, I witnessed two of the attempts on my mothers life, but no one would listen to the 10 year-old boy. The boy could retain a high possibility of being as insane as the mother who bore him. The crucial turning point in my life had finally arrived, not during the marriage, but during the divorce. When my mom had finally braved her fears, and decided to take custody of my sister and me. After my father had left us both to fend for ourselves, while he had partaken in various illegal activities. It was a particularly clear night I took a leisure walk, during perhaps one of the most restless nights I experienced. The night before, my father and some less reputable associates of his had taken a blunt object to the already worn 1987' Cadillac Deville. Although police officials never solved the case, the answer was plainly obvious. After the police were notified, my mother made a wise decision to withhold my sister and me from school. She would later learn that this decision may have perhaps been wise as well as serve its own repercussions. During the later hours of the same day as the previous incident, the rage of my father (perhaps due to the influence of various drugs) welled up inside him that he decided to concoct a Thompson 55 nefarious plan to lure my mother and decided to eliminate his immediate family. He had planned on both me and my sibling to be at school, but he would never get the chance to learn whether or not we were. Unbeknownst to me or my sister, my father had knocked on the door. It was my mother who answered to hear him say that our clothes were in the trunk of his vehicle. My mother foolishly followed him, not to find our clothes, but to witness what he hoped to be her demise. I awoke with a curiosity, and peered furtively through the blinds in time to witness him withdraw a weapon and fire the first shot at her. My mother's friend who sympathetically taken my mother, my sister and I into her household, woke to rush me and my sister to safety. By that time, I already witnessed what took place. After the first two shots were fired into her lower abdomen, he added insult to injury. As she pleaded with her executioner for her life, he felt no remorse for his actions as he shot one final round into her stomach from less than a ruler's length away. He fled almost as quickly as he arrived. I witnessed her lying in a pool of her own substantial life-force, flowing forth from her torn viscera. Tears began falling from my sister's eyes, but I remained still, not sure how I felt. I still question if I had become the hardened, heartless man I despised so much, all because of one tear not shed at the most traumatizing event in any childs life. I can not tell you all of the details, and I am certain you would not want to hear them. As surely as these events happened, I have become a person dedicated to proving myself nothing like my father. I have created an identity separate from my father and will be a husband soon. As for my mother and sister, though they may have their quarrels from time to time, I can assure you that they are quite happy. My father still waits in his prison cell for his leave, and from that point I can only hope that I will not hear from him again. From these events, I can part a gift of wisdom

to you, with the hopes that you will take my words to heart. It is not the events that make us who we are, It is what we can derive from those events that do. Though my tale may have been seemingly endless. I would like to thank you for listening to it.