Murphy’s Law- Whatever can go wrong, Will go wrong.
Now I’m not sure about of a lot of things in life, but for the first 26 years of my life I was sure about one thing, This guy Murphy was right and I hated him for it. I would think life would show me some reprieve after I witnessed my mother walk out the door, never to come back. Low and behold there was no such luck, in fact there was no luck at all, unless you are willing to classify bad luck, and I use the word “bad” only because I can not for the life of me find a better word to describe it at this time. Life had been rough before momma left, but I could have never guessed it would’ve gotten any worse.
When I was a small child I was afraid of the monsters that lived under my bed, the monsters that most certainly lived in my closet, and all the monsters and ghouls that I saw in the latest Fangoria magazines my mother had left lying around the house. In my limited capacity at that young age all of those monsters were real in my head, that I was sure of. I knew one night the boogeyman would jump out of my closet and I would get one brief glimpse of him before he took me away to whatever place boogeymen took their child hostages. I never realized just how real monsters were until my mother left, when she left that’s when I learned what monsters truly were. After she left I wished the boogeyman in my closet would make me his child hostage.
My “Father” was a vicious man. He still is my worst nightmare turned reality, and I still go through life tormented by the memories that haunt me and scare me even today. “Father” was a Irish immigrant, he was a card-carrying alcoholic, a walking Irish stereotype. When he first moved to the states he was hired on as a construction worker, not long after that he had a steel beam fall on his leg and end his fledgling construction career and in turn end his hopes of succeeding in the states. His bitterness at first was focused inwards and did not physically affect me at all. His actions in the beginning were completely self-destructive and only indirectly effected my little sister and me, after momma left we were never again so lucky.
I’ve said before the one memory that would always stay with me was the hunger I felt. There was rarely any food on the table, there were many nights and days that went by when we would not eat at all. I remember falling asleep to my sister crying out in hunger, it was the most pitiful cry I can remember, weak almost as if she didn’t have the strength to have a voice. Sometimes when I shut my eyes at night I can still hear those cries of hers, they send chills up my spine now, and at times bring a tear to my eyes.
It had been a year since my mother left to buy cigarettes, I would always wonder when she was going to get home. I hoped she was cured of her disease and wasn’t on her “medicine” anymore, I hoped she would come home and swoop in like Wonder Woman and save us from the Hell we were taking residence in. The beatings were becoming more frequent, most of the time we got beat because he was mad over something that happened at the bar earlier in the day. All I knew was when my “father” took off his belt my little behind was going to be sore for the foreseeable future. We even got beat for our dog Satan, and you read that correctly, our German Shepherds name was Satan. He was even cruel to the dog.
Now if my demon of a “father” wasn’t feeding us, he certainly wasn’t feeding Satan. Poor thing was skin and bones just like my sister and I were. I have a vivid memory of a battle my dog and me once had. It was later at night and my “father” wasn’t quite torched yet and poured some water in Satan’s bowl. I heard it, Satan heard it. My head perked up from my pillow just as his did. I looked him in his brown canine eyes, he looked into mine. There was a moment of primal understanding, we weren’t friends at that point. Survival was of paramount importance, and come whatever may, it was either going to be him or me. We both jumped from the bed, mustering every last bit of strength we had and ran to the kitchen. Satan had the upper hand, all four of his legs moving rapidly in unison. I could only move so fast, but I was clever as I was able to catch a back leg and cause him to slide head first into the kitchen table. I made it to the bowl and got on all fours and placed my lips into the cool water and sipped my wonderful liquid prize. I looked up to see if Satan was still there, as I looked up from the bowl I caught a boot to my face, and faded to black.
When I came to, I was strewn out on the floor of my room. I could taste the blood, it was metallic and warm. My little nose was flattened and there was dried blood on my Bert and Ernie pajama top. I looked over to my little 4-year-old sisters bed and she was gone. I gathered myself and walked cautiously into the kitchen. As I made it to the living room I heard it. It was a sound I will never forget, it haunts my worst nightmares. My little sister had found her voice, and she let out the most blood curdling screams I have ever heard, even until this day. I heard the devil inside yell at her to “shut the fuck up and lay still!” Satan then sat beside me as I cried for my sister. Both Satan and me both knew that neither of us had won, and my sister was the innocent that received the punishment for our exploits.
My sister was brutally raped that night. I’ll never be able to bury the image of her walking back into our room, face all battered and bloodied, and the large crimson stain on the bottom of her tattered pajama bottoms. I’ve taken copious amounts of meds to deal with that memory nothing worked. I fall asleep and still hear her screams. I lived with Lucifer incarnate, and I can tell you with the utmost certainty this: Monsters do exist, and they look like you and me.