I: The Beginning

I’m not at all certain where to start.

I grew up in Houston, Texas. I have an older brother, Brandon, and a younger sister, Annabelle. My family is anything but well off, let alone even middle class. I remember how the hot water and electric kept getting turned off; how we’d move from house to house because we couldn’t afford the rent or the mortgage and they would come and take our house away. I’ve moved more times than I am years old now — I’m 21 now.

I went to a correspondence school in Scranton, PA. I graduated early, but didn’t receive my diploma in hand until I was 18. I’m an average person. I have average medium skin, average dark brown curly hair, average brown eyes, average features, and an alto voice. I don’t like to wear my glasses and I sometimes forget to put on deoderant.

I had a wonderful childhood, even though we moved around a lot. It wasn’t until the day that my mother hit me that things began to change.

We grew up going to church. I hate that church now. My father started a business with a dirty son of a bitch — not that he knew that he was a son of a bitch at the time, though. I’m going to call him SOB. That’s all he is anyway.
My father’s business failed. I really can’t even remember what it was that they did. SOB eventually accused my father of stealing money from the company and SOB’s wife’s laptop. His son, SOB Jr., repeatedly threatened us kids and told us that he liked to take his pistol to school. Well, SOB, with his tallit and raised hands in a non-denominational church, eventually convinced the pastor of that church that my father had stolen all this money and equipment. I don’t know how, or why, but the pastor and SOB convinced my parents that they should sign a paper saying that it was all true. It wasn’t.

SOB stalked us. He came to our house and fought my father, he left threatening voicemails, he followed us in his blue mini-van with the Trinidad flag hanging from the rearview mirror. He showed up at random, demanding whatever he wanted. He told us that he’d kill us or take us kids away and beat us.

Since then, we still see him show up every now and then. My mother saw him a couple of weeks ago.

We eventually left that church and moved to a new one when I was twelve. That was when things began to change.

My mother hit me for the first time. We were yelling; mom was convinced that our neighbor, Kris, was attempting to seduce my father. Mom and I were arguing, me arguing that dad would never do something like that, and mom just screaming that Kris was a slut. She smacked me across my face and I walked out, carrying my oh-so-precious Bible under my left arm. I stalked out of the apartment, shaking, and started down the sidewalk. The front door slammed and I heard mom’s quick footsteps rushing down the sidewalk, then felt her fingers tightly gripping my risk and I was suddenly dragged back inside.

Brandon lifted a chair over his head when she came at me again. Mom huddled in the hallway, suddenly shocked at Brandon’s abrupt move. He set the chair back down, his intimidating form beginning to relax. That was the end of the fight. But that’s also when things began to change.

My parents are bi-polar. Not just bi-polar, though…Mom’s a bi-polar/manic depressive. They’re both ex-druggies/alcoholics. They met in rehab. Seriously.

Things would get bad every now and then, and mom seemed to be able to find an outlet in me. I got used to it, but I hated that Annabelle was around to witness it. One day, it got a little worse.

“Get in the car,” Mom said, firmly, her voice shaking.

I stumbled, shaking, to the front door and into the parking lot. I climbed into the car, both of them sliding in shortly after. I stared at our two bedroom apartment as we pulled away, my hand still pressed to my bloody lip, watching the reflections pass over my window as the street lamps slipped away. We drove down 59 toward downtown.

The car stopped a short while later. I waited, trembling. They’d never driven me anywhere when they were mad at me before.

“Get out,” the command was clear. I obeyed, opening my car door and slipping out and into the sidewalk.

“Shut the door,” I pushed it shut.

The car slowly pulled away. I lifted turned and watched as it paused at a stop light, the anxious feeling of a little kid lost in a grocery store suddenly sweeping over me. It reached a crashing crescendo as the car moved forward when the light turned green. I lifted my hand and slowly waved.

Downtown? I turned and looked around me. I was on Pease, I knew that much. I turned and began to walk, fear rushing over me. I’d never been so far from my family before, and I wasn’t sure what it was that I’d done to upset them so badly. I walked for hours, ignoring the cars that pulled up and asked if I wanted to ride, or the men who leered at me when I passed. I was a kid. I was 12. But at least I somehow knew that those men telling me that they could get me home to my parents weren’t trustworthy.

After hours of walking, a car pulled up and a teenage girl leaned out. She had long dark hair and striking eyes. I know, because I got into her car as she chatted away. Her name was Cheryl and she barely looked old enough to drive. Cheryl took me back to her house, which was actually maybe 10 miles away from my family’s apartment. There was a party going on in full force by then, drunk teens and college kids everywhere. I was exhausted. She lead me to an upstairs bedroom of the massive house. The bed was covered in a white quilt and had a stepping stool next to it. I slept, deeply.

When I woke up and went downstairs to the kitchen, she was serving drinks in red and blue plastic cups. I heard music slamming from a room just off the kitchen, where a buff 20-something was standing in front of the door with his arms crossed. He didn’t seem to care that I was there, so I pushed the door open.

Naked people were everywhere.

I gave my first blowjob that night. I don’t know who it was, but Cheryl taught me how to do it. I went home a day later, Cheryl dropping me off in the parking lot. She told me that she wished that I hadn’t gone into that room. I wished that I hadn’t either.

It was late and everyone was in bed already. I slipped quietly into the bedroom that my siblings and I shared. Kneeling next to the red futon bunk bed, I said my prayers and crawled wearily into bed. I fell asleep praying that I wouldn’t wake up again.

  1. Joshua Kincaid says:

    so….. i am amazed

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