On The Radio…
On the CB radio…tucked up in my bedroom, is late, very. Am in my domain, escape from control part of the building, or trying to. Wires, cables, machines, books, books and more books line the walls. Home is somewhere I’m not often to be found, joint of misery, when I am there. Never giving up or in though, my machines keep me out with the walls from the inside.
Talking to my friends –and associates.
My bedroom door opens. Father.
He stands making conversation that is not conversation but an excuse to cross the door. I’ve already turned the machines to silent and giving whatever answers I’m expected to be giving.
He hates the machines, they threaten his control, as if my ways do not enough, already.
His eyes keep glancing to the plethora of equipment still laid across my bed. I can sense the rage building. Am used to it, and him coming out with some ensuing paranoid lie and losing the plot to try to exert control.
“Don’t you fucking dare to talk on that fucking thing when you are talking to me!” he spits.
Feelings of desperate, broken, confusion encircle me – again.
I have not spoken a word to anyone. I’m silent. The machines are silent. He has had my full and undivided, if not welcome or invited, attention.
There is no point of protest, or attempt to stop him. He is off on one.
Madman, grabbing every machine, every bit of equipment, throwing it on the floor and stamping it all to smithereens.
Happy, when he thinks there is nothing left, he snarls, whilst smiling, ‘You will talk to
nobody but me, when I am in here’.
In here? My bedroom? There is a healthy father, not…?
Not that I had spoken to anyone whilst he was in the room anyway, but now – I will!
A bit more broken inside, but determined, I reach under my bed. His own control has left me one last outlet. He keeps stealing my handheld CB so he can wig my convos from his bed. I’d taken it back, yet again, from th eside of his bed, earlier in the night. He doesn’t know that, yet. He thinks he has trashed the lot.
Back on the airwaves. Answering the influx, his voice speaks. Where did you go S?
So, I tell him what has just happened – rampant asshole Father, trashed machines, control.
I’ll be parked behind your house, next street up in 5 says he.
Essential, the street behind, a car outside my house, the control freak will hear, one behind my house, he will not.
Not that there is an issue w/ cars picking me up, there are lines of them, day and night, but Father is not dense, and knows the others are my drivers, chauffers and there is nothing going on. What he fears is where there IS something going on…
Opening my room door, I creep down stairs, open the living room window, take shoes off, throw them out the window, noise reduction for me landing on the ground outside, im right below fathers bedroom window and a pin could be heard at this hour. I climb out the window, silent landing, pick up my shoes – and run.
It’s been minutes, but He is there, true to word, we are only streets apart, and well he is rather like S, decisive,where S is concerned.
Hours on a beach, in places I don’t really want to be, but do. He has nipped my head, daily from I was 13 years old and I’ve walked on by, until a control freak uncle, wrongly accused me of stuff going on with him, that never
was. Hung for a sheep or a lamb?
This, the beach, him, screwing myself over? It is out of there, it is away from them, but it is also, far, away from – me.
He stops the car, Let me come in with you S? Is the second time he has asked this. The answer is the same – No. Don’t go, he says, come back with me. The answer is the same – No. I’m as good at No as I am at Yes.
From first he managed to get S, he has wanted to decap my Father, but I wont have it, done for me.
Climbing back in the window, same order, shoes off, absolute silence, one stair at a time,
back to bed. The higher I get, the more the dawning. I’m dead. Several stairs from top, can see, my bedroom door is open, the light is on, I did not leave it that way.
Dread. Shame. Dread.
Too late. There he is, unleashed, like never before, smashing out of the darkened landing, madman.
Where have you been he is screaming! Plot lost completely.
Normally any mention of mother or at mothers or anything like it would ensue an absolute rage attack but this time instinct tells me the Truth would be far worse and he does not want to hear it.
In terror, to reduce the impact of what is going to come, I lie and say, I was off to live with my mother! Bullshit, total, and I’m whacked anyway, but I know lesser whacked for THAT evil idea.
Crunch, my head slams against the wall, there is no fight back. Doesn’t matter how many heads I’ve caved to protect him, I am powerless to do nil but take all he throws. He kicks, he punches, no resistance. Over and over he picks me up, slams my head against the wall, again, again, and each time I fall, he kicks punches more –
and repeats, picks me back up and smashes my head some more. If all say S is like a doll, cos they want me to be, well now it is being broken…they all want S as the doll to be dollkeepers.
He has never really hit me before, is what might be the surprising. He was easy, hit me once, begged and goaded to by my mother, but any other time, no, he’d threaten to, and I’d run to the bathroom, look the door, and say, not coming out till you say you are not going to hit me? And he’d agree, and I’d walk out and that was that.
But I knew, threatened by another man, he is going to go to town, bigstyle. I am his possession. The lie re going to my mothers house was for his solace, as much as mines, whilst stuck back in that madness – and of course he believed me,that this is where I’d been out to and headed, but only because he wanted to, deep down, he knew the Truth – and now, he was exacting his vengeance of it, with my head all over the wall.
Blood drips from my head, my face, is all over the floor, the walls. Something very dumb about me back then,or something very courageous, i would not stay on the floor, the more he kicked, the more he thrashed, the more my head banged off wall, instead of just ok, enough, lay down, i kept getting back up for more.
Clumps of my own hair are on the floor, picked up, down, like a ragdoll, to be slapped about some more, blood is pouring, bruises are growing. I will not give in – he does.
Happy, with the mess in front of him, he says, If ever you leave, I will cut your throat.
There will be a ‘throat cut’ but it will not be – mines..