Excerpt from: Survivor by Instinct~

Book: Survivor by Instinct
By Nancy Lee Destiny

Part 1

I remember when I was seven years old; I had been listening to my latest foster parents, Cleo and Katherine quarreling. I thought, “Oh no, not this again.” They always quarreled. Routinely it turned into fighting, never surprising me. My foster dad towered over my foster mother’s undersized body frame, smashing her in the face with his full-size fist. Both her face and his knuckles were bleeding. He had caught his knuckle on her tooth when her lips separated from the force of his dynamic blow. Blood was gushing from her swelling lips, tears were streaming from her cheeks as if someone had left the water on. Her eyes were wide open, bugged out, wearing hopelessness like a faded hand-me-down dress.

She was doubled over at the waist, holding her abdomen, screeching in pain. He had just punched her there. Dad was yanking out her hair by the fistful. Hair laid in clumps on the hallway floor. Only ten feet away was their bedroom, where they slept as husband and wife. Mother tumbled to the floor in pain, next to her clumps of hair. He grabbed hold her hair again, dragging her up and up, until she was standing limply in front of him. I heard a shriek of pain and a whimper of helplessness that was piercing the further she was lifted from the floor. What was he going to do next? I screamed, “Daddy stop it, don’t hurt her anymore.”

I kept screaming it, apparently upon deaf ears. I felt so frustrated; I went over and grabbed hold of his arm in attempt to stop it from landing on her again. He just shrugged me off like swatting a fly. His strong forceful arm flung me aside knocking my head against the wall. Mother screamed at him for it, which made Dad even angrier. His blows were imminent and uninterrupted for her. Who could ever help her now? With that thought, I remembered the gun concealed in the bookcase, in the headboard of their bed. I had seen it in there the last time I had dusted in their room. Dusting was part of my daily chores. She shrieked out loud again. When I looked into her inflated, black-and-blue eyes, I felt she could take little more. I knew I had to help her in some way. He wasn’t going to stop any time soon. The next thing I knew I was standing in front of him, aiming the small black pistol, targeting him. I yelled at the top of my voice, “Stop or I’ll kill you, stop hurting her!” He stopped the beating instantaneously, and she stopped sobbing long enough to turn and notice me positioned alongside him, in front of her, a little to the side, with a gun aimed at his malicious and horrifying face.

I hadn’t known if the pistol was loaded, I wasn’t quite sure even how to use it. All I knew was that on TV all that was essential was to squeeze the trigger. I can still dredge up the cold feeling running up my spine when I had the gun in my hand and my tiny finger on the trigger. I suffered shame aiming the gun at my so called new Dad. Looking up into his eyes, I didn’t see hopelessness as I had seen in mother’s eyes. What I saw was terror. His eyes were wide, brows raised a wrinkle in his forehead, and he wore shock like pants that didn’t fit. Maybe he was in disbelief, it’s not like I went gun grabbing daily or ever before. It’s not like I went Poppa targeting before either. His mouth hung open, yet nothing came out of it for once. Yes, for once the tables were turned. Dad now had to defend himself.

Mother took in a elongated cavernous breath, dad stood petrified, gawking blankly at me. For all of what seemed like a time without end, was approaching four full seconds with the air of tranquility momentarily passing through. I had known so little tranquility in my life. The shouting had ceased. Even the abuse had ended fleetingly. You could hear each of our heavy-winded breaths.

My hands were trembling, my heart was bursting out of my chest, and I couldn’t stop crying. Yet, I was poised and focused for what in my mind was the only way to make dad stop this forever. We couldn’t take it anymore. Mom and I had had enough. I thought if he didn’t stop now he would unquestionably punch her to death. I kept looking intently at him; in my heart I loathed how he was destroying our family. In my mind I was contemplating what I would do if he didn’t stop. I felt so appallingly gloomy to have been put in such a situation, particularly at the tender age of seven. I remember thoughts such as “Why is he making me do this? Why does he keep doing this again and again? What is his problem for God’s sake?”

The next thing anyone heard was mother. She got up the nerve to squeak out something to say to me softly. “Letrisee honey?” she said clearing her throat, then repeated herself a bit louder…”Letrisee honey?” I was starring down the beast that was ripping our family apart. I only heard her faintly. She spoke again a third time slightly louder, trying to get my attention this time, trying not to startle me. I hesitantly glanced over at her this time after she spoke. Backing up, I looked to my left where she was, drops of fire from my burning eyes were rolling down my cheeks. I swallowed the lump in my throat in order to speak, then I said,”What mother?” I hastily looked up at Dad, keeping my eyes on him. I had to keep my eyes on him. He couldn’t be trusted. Dad had broken that trust with each and every punch, hit, and beating. His beatings were habitual. Every blow was a demoralizing blow to our souls. However, we were determined to try to keep our spirit, thinking “He may get our bodies, but the will never break our spirit.” Over time eventually he managed to take our dignity, and souls, and yes our spirits vanished as well. We were conquered down to the bones.

Anyway, keeping my eyes peeled at Dad while cocking my ear back to mother who began softly pleading with me. “Baby put down the gun. Baby girl, please put down the gun!” The devastation in her voice was agonizing to my ears. By now I was gritting my teeth so hard my face hurt. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, my eyes grew dark with hatred, my trembling hands became steady, and my mind started trying to justify blowing him away to stop the violence. How ironic. The adrenaline was pumping faster than a three dollar a gallon gasoline pump. I further steadied my hand and aimed right for the heart, looking him directly in the eyes. I thought “After all he had broken our hearts, how befitting to break his.” What happened next no one could have anticipated, but I now speculate it happened for a reason and it turned out to be for the best. Mother sniveled, I turned, I looked over, and BOOM! She fell to the floor. She lay there limp as a wet dish rag. Mother had fainted. I didn’t know she had fainted. I thought she was dead as a door knob because I had never seen anyone faint before, or never even knew what fainting was, or why people fainted.

Meanwhile while I was pre-occupied with mother’s condition Dad quickly snatched the gun from my hand. Helping mother seemed much more imperative at the time anyway. She just seemed to of dropped dead to the floor. I thought she was scared to death literally. I was so terrified; my heart fell to the floor with her. I dropped to my knees weeping over what I believed to be her corpse. As I crouched over her seemingly lifeless corpse I whispered, “Wake up mother, I didn’t mean it.” Somehow I had blamed myself for what had happened. In retrospect now I know better. I know the demon inside that man called Dad was who the blame had belonged. But at age seven one doesn’t know what, or who is to blame. In my mind I only knew one thing, Dad was beating mom again, I had a gun pointing it at Dad, mother must have died from the excitement, and it was my fault somehow. The pains I felt ripped open my heart. So again I pleaded, “Mother wake-up please, please….pretty please mother? Mother do you hear me?” When she didn’t answer me I just knew she was dead. She had to be, why else wouldn’t she hear me? My mind was saying reach out Letrisee and touch her, give her a gentle shake. But my body was unmoving. I was iced up. I couldn’t budge. I crouched immobile with the terror running through my mind, “This is my entire fault! Mother is dead, because I was going to take the life of my Dad.”

Part 2

The police came thumping their fists repetitively on our front door that night. They looked at our broken door window and Dad’s cut and bleeding hands, then took him away and locked Dad up. Mother was taken to the hospital in the blaring ambulance and Uncle Ernie babysat. The neighbors were the ones who had called the police; I later found this out from Uncle Ernie. He wasn’t very good at keeping secrets, unless they were his own. He wasn’t very good at staying sober either. As he lay passed out on the sofa downstairs with the television left on loud, I went to bed upstairs in my bedroom. I closed the door. If it had a lock on it, I would have locked it, but it didn’t. So I shut it and hoped for an uneventful night.

It’s was cold that night. I felt alone more that night than ever before, like I was being abandoned again but this time I knew why, for my wrong doing, wrong doing my foot, I was going to kill Dad. It was a bitter and blustery night. I was fully aware there were not a soul around but me and Uncle Ernie. The howling wind seemed to echo my aloneness. There was no one to snuggle with or talk with or hold hands with. That night I relied on my stuffed animal, a purple donkey, for friendship to warm me. He did to, he warmed me to my bones and I felt the embers burning within our two souls. I gave life to him that night and named him Fernando. We shared compassion and re-ignited my faith in humanity with our imaginary talks of comfort in my mind. I had seen and felt so much discord in my seven years on this planet. I had felt more than I cared to. I held onto Fernando, my donkey friend, tightly for comforting warmth.

I was safe in bed with the door closed to my bedroom, but I was afraid he would come for me again, like he had so many times before. Not Dad, but Uncle Ernie, in his drunken stupor. He would stumble up the steps, stomping his big limburger cheese reeking feet, mumbling what I thought was non sense the whole way upstairs. Then a hoarse yell, “Hey want some pizza? I feel like pizza.” Jiggle jiggle went the door knob suddenly as if he didn’t remember it never did have a lock on it. Then the door flew open and the hoarse yell bounced off my bedroom walls, landing in my half asleep ears, “Hey come on down for some pizza. I know you love pizza. I feel like pizza.” But what he really meant was I like cheap feels and use pizza as the bait for some…cheap feels from my niece. Uncle Ernie’s volunteer babysitting on Fridays became habitual.

A piece of my Heart is in every book...N~

Love to All...N~