Phoenix Resurrected

by Oliver T Spedding

  “Garth.” my father said, his voice strained and hoarse. “We’re going to do something this afternoon that’s quite normal and is done by all fathers and their sons. It’s very important though that what we’ll be doing must remain a secret between the two of us. If you tell any one I’ll hurt you so badly that you’ll never be able to walk again. I’ll break your legs and possibly also your back. Nobody, not even your mother, must know. Do you understand?”

  As my father spoke I could feel him gently fondling my genitals. The shock at what my father was doing to me paralyzed me. My whole body froze and I could hardly breathe.

  “Answer me.” my father said. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  My fear and helplessness overwhelmed me but I forced myself to nod my head as I turned and looked up at my father. The look of pure lust in his eyes petrified me and I began to cry in confusion.

  “Stop crying!” my father said. “What we’re doing is quite natural. There’s nothing wrong and there’s nothing to be afraid of. All fathers and their sons do this.”

  My father continued to fondle me and then began to massage my penis.

  “Put your hand inside my overalls.” my father said.

  I shook my head, instinctively knowing that what my father wanted me to do was wrong.

  “Do as I say or I’ll light a cigarette and burn you so badly behind your ears that they’ll never heal.” my father said, his voice hard and menacing.

  I tried to stop myself but my fear was far too overpowering and I felt my hand move into the opening in the trousers of his overalls. I began to cry again. Why was my father doing this to me? I’d never heard any of the other boys talk about doing things like this with their fathers.

  “Move your hand further down.” my father hissed. “And stop crying!”

  I felt my hand move further down into my father’s trousers. During this time my father continued to fondle me.

  ***

  Eventually we left the garage and returned to the house. My mother ignored me completely. I went to my bedroom, took off my shoes, and climbed onto my bed. I lay on my side and stared at the wall. Why were these terrible things that I didn’t understand, happening to me?

  The following week filled me with dread. I found it impossible to concentrate and there were several times when I got into trouble for not doing my homework and for not listening to my teacher’s instructions. My mind could not accept what I would have to face come Sunday afternoon. The days passed all too quickly and the moment that I so dreaded arrived.

  “Okay, Garth.” my father said as he stood up from the dinning room table. “Put on your old clothes and let’s go to the garage. Today I’ll show you how to change the fan belt.”

  I changed into my old clothes as slowly as possible desperately hoping that something would happen to prevent the abuse that I knew was about to be inflicted on me. My father waited impatiently for me. I could hear my mother beginning to wash the dishes in the kitchen. I left my bedroom and followed my father out of the house to the garage. We entered the enclosure and my father closed and locked the door.

  Instead of opening the bonnet of the car though, my father walked to the right-hand back door and opened it. I noticed that his hands were shaking. He placed a thick old towel across the back seat of the car.

  “Take your pants off and get into the car.” my father said. I recognized the husky sound of lust from the previous Sunday in his voice.

  I shook my head, determined to disobey my father. He stepped up to me and slapped me hard across the face, knocking me to the floor. Spots danced in front of my eyes. I stared up at my father as he reached into his top pocket and took out his packet of cigarettes and his lighter. I stared at the items in horror.

  “Take your pants off and get into the back of the car.” my father said, his voice hard and menacing. “If you don’t, I’m going to burn you behind your ears as never before. You’ll be in agony for weeks.”

  My whole body began to shake and started to cry softly.

  “Stop crying and get into the car!” my father shouted.

  The threat of being burnt behind my ears forced me to move. I had never experienced such pain as being burnt behind my ears with a cigarette. The mere thought of it made me hyperventilate. I struggled to control my breathing and removed my pants. I climbed into the back of the car and as I did so I felt my father fondle my genitals. I moved to the far side of the seat and glanced back at my father. He had already removed his overall trousers and I gawked at his rigid penis, the tip already moist and shiny. I began to cry softly. He climbed into the car and sat on the towel next to me.

  ***

  It was four days before I could walk properly again. Fortunately my injuries healed without any complications, something that I could see was a huge relief to both my parents. I spent the four days trying desperately to understand what was being done to me. I tried to speak to my mother but as soon as I began to make any kind of conversation she would hurriedly leave the room. During those four days I never saw my father once.

  My hatred and distrust for both of my parents became the dominant emotion in my life. I hated my father for what he was doing to me and I hated my mother for not doing anything to prevent the abuse that I was being subjected to.

  The other emotion that I constantly expressed was anger. This anger was mainly directed at myself because of my helplessness. Somehow I expected that I would be able to prevent the abuse that I was suffering even though this was unreasonable. My father was a great deal stronger than me physically. He was also far more experienced and knowledgeable about what he was doing. His power and intelligence far exceeded mine. I was constantly confused and fearful, never knowing whether what was being done to me was right or wrong and having nobody to turn to for guidance. Loneliness hung over me like an oppressive cloud.

  I also directed my anger and frustration at other people, especially my fellow pupils and this only served to exacerbate the situation and isolate me even more.

  I believed that my father had not tried to molest me again after the first incident only because he feared that he might aggravate the physical damage that he had inflicted on me and that this might attract the attention of the medical authorities. My injuries healed and as a result I began to grow more and more fearful that the next attack was imminent. The beatings and burning of my ears and other parts of my body continued and every Sunday I expected my father to take me to the garage after lunch and molest me again. The trepidation of this happening became too much for me to bear and I realized that if I wanted to preserve my sanity I had to run away from home. I began to plan my flight to safety.

  As both my parents worked all day, the opportunity to run away posed no difficulty. I didn’t give any consideration to where I was going to go or what I was going to do to live; all I wanted to do was get away from the horror that I was presently enduring. On the day that I decided to leave I came straight home from school and packed some clothes, a small towel, my facecloth, my toothbrush and a bar of soap in a large plastic carrier bag, took ten dollars out of the biscuit tin in the kitchen where my mother kept her household money and left the house. I walked north towards the city centre.

  I walked into the busy central business district just as the office workers were leaving to go home. I walked quickly towards the metropolitan area of Windhoek Central, dodging the masses of people hurrying to their destinations. By the time I reached the city centre the crowds of pedestrians had thinned considerably. As I walked I realized that I was still wearing my school uniform which made me look rather conspicuous. I shrugged my shoulders and began looking for a shop to buy some food.

  I stopped at a small takeaway and bought a packet of potato crisps and a Coke. I sat and ate the food on the kerb. Nobody took any notice of me. I hadn’t given any thought as to where I was going or where I would spend the night until I noticed a narrow alleyway between two tall office buildings on the opposite side of the street.

  It was
now almost dark and the street lights burnt softly above me. I crossed the street and peered into the dark interior of the alleyway. The ground was littered with broken cardboard boxes. A large black cat stared at me with wide yellow eyes before darting past me and disappearing into one of the curb-side drains.

  I walked into the dark interior of the alley nervously but, apart from the broken boxes, there was nothing. Putting down my plastic bag I pulled aside one of the larger boxes and flattened it on the ground by standing on it and stomping it with the soles of my shoes. I placed the flattened box on the ground next to the back wall and, using my bag of possessions as a pillow, lay down. I was quite surprised at how comfortable my “mattress” was. I lay back and stared up at the dim stars in the black sky above me. Eventually I fell asleep.

  The roar of a mechanized street sweeper woke me the next morning. I stood up and walked to the entrance to the alleyway. Although the street lights were still burning the eastern sky was already a very pale grey. I retrieved my belongings and crossed the street to the takeaway which was already open for business. I bought a pie and a Coke and as I stood eating my meal the shop owner glanced at me.

  “What you doing here so early in the morning?” he asked in a heavily accented Portuguese accent. “Have you run away from home?”

  The sudden realization that what I was doing was quite futile and pointless and that it would just be a matter of time before my parents called the police and they came looking for me, convinced me to tell the man the truth. In my school uniform it wouldn’t take the authorities long to find me.

  I nodded.

  “Yes. I’ve run away from home but I don’t know where to go or what to do.” I said miserably.

  “It’s very dangerous for a small boy like you to be out alone in the city.” the shop owner said. “It would be better if you went home before you are robbed or killed.”

  “But I don’t want to go home.” I said.

  Just then taxi cab stopped at the curb in front of the takeaway.

  “Ah! Here is my friend Duarte.” the man said. “He’s a taxi driver. I’ll ask him to take you home.”

  “But I don’t want to go home!” I protested.

  “You must.” the man said. “If you don’t let Duarte take you home I will have to call the police.”

  By this time the taxi driver had climbed out of his vehicle and walked to where I was standing.

  “Duarte.” the takeaway owner said. “This little boy has run away from home and it is too dangerous for him to be alone in the city. Please take him back to his home.”

  The taxi owner looked down at me and smiled. I felt my shoulders sag in resignation.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “In the Southern Industrial Area.” I said.

  The taxi owner put his hand on my shoulder gently.

  “Come on.” he said. “I’ll take you home. Things can’t be that bad at home that you have to run away.”

  I allowed the man to guide me to his car. He opened the passenger’s door and I climbed in. I felt very depressed. My plan to run away had failed and now I would have to face the consequences.

  The taxi driver climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. He drove away from the kerb, giving a brief wave to the shop owner.

  Fortunately the taxi driver didn’t ask me why I had run away from home. I directed him to our house.

  “Okay, you’re safely home.” the man said. “Now go inside and make peace with your parents. Good luck.”

  I climbed out of the taxi with a terrible feeling of foreboding. I knew that I was about to get a terrible beating or even a horrible burning behind the ears. I was so frightened that I almost got back into the car. I stood in abject fear, my muscles refusing to move.

  “Don’t be afraid.” the man said. “Your parents will probably be very relieved that you are safely back home. Be brave and face them. I’m sure that they won’t hurt you.”

  I took a deep breath, thanked the man for his help, and, carrying my bag of possessions, walked slowly towards the house.

  To my surprise the front door of the house was unlocked. I pushed it open and walked in. A sickly smell that I couldn’t identify filled the air. I closed the front door and walked into the lounge.

  My mother sat in one of the lounge chairs close to the doorway, her head resting against the back of the chair and her dark brown eyes staring at me vacantly. A thin rivulet of dried blood ran from the small black hole in the centre of her forehead down the bridge of her nose before sliding off to the right, across her wrinkled left cheek, over her thin jaw line and down the side of her neck before disappearing into the red mass of coagulated blood that has soaked into her blue dress.

  I glanced quickly around the room. My father sat in another chair directly opposite my mother, his head also resting against its back. His pale blue sightless eyes stared blankly at me. A small black hole with a smattering of black spots around it marred the smooth skin of his right temple and a thin trail of almost black dried blood ran down the side of his face, down his neck and into the collar of his white shirt. His right hand lay on his lap the fingers still wrapped around the butt of his Smith & Wesson M39 double action automatic handgun.

  In the silence I could hear the distant sound of the traffic travelling along the busy highway nearby.

  As I stared at my dead parents I felt a sense of deep relief flood over me. I felt no sorrow at all at their deaths. The hatred and anger for my parents that I had nurtured within me during the years of abuse was still there and always would be, but I was acutely aware that the nightmare that I had endured for the whole of my life so far, was over.

  I went to the kitchen and made myself a bowl of cereal with milk and sugar. I sat down at the table, suddenly aware of how hungry I was. I finished the meal and drank a glass of cold milk. I walked out of the front door and went to the neighbouring house. I knocked on the door. Mister Gray opened it and looked down at me enquiringly.

  “Please call the police.” I said. “My parents have killed themselves.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Your Honour.” my legal representative, James Foster, said. “I interrupted my client, Cindy Bedford’s evidence at the point that I did because both my learned colleague, Mister Paul Greave, and I, feel that it’s very important that the evidence of both Cindy Bedford and Garth Gilmore be interwoven as this will provide a helpful picture of how their backgrounds have affected their collective behaviour. I would therefore like to recall Miss Bedford to the witness stand.”

  Judge Warren Bester nodded.

  I walked calmly to the witness stand, passing Garth on his way back to the dock.

  “Cindy.” James Foster said with an encouraging smile. “I’d like you to continue from where you left off earlier. As you said, your father returned to fulltime work and there was no longer any opportunity for him to trouble you sexually. What were your feelings then?”

  “Although I felt extremely relieved, I never felt safe.” I replied. “I was constantly trying to avoid any situation that might leave me and my father alone in the house and this was very distressing. I also had an awful longing to be recognized as someone real; someone worthwhile.”

  I hesitated, not sure how to express myself without appearing to be silly.

  “Don’t be afraid, Cindy.” James Foster said. “You have been extremely brave so far and I can assure you that everyone in this court today is here to support you.”

  I took a deep breath and began to speak.

  ***

  As a young girl of thirteen who had never been given any advice or guidance about sexual matters I struggled to understand what my father had done to me. I felt that I was some kind of object to be used, mistreated and looked upon with indifference. I found it impossible to believe that what had happened between me and my father was normal but I had no means of confirming this. I couldn’t speak to anyone about it, firstly because I feared that my father would hurt me very badly if I did, and
secondly because I knew that nobody would believe me. My helplessness angered me even though I knew that this was unfair. My anger was also tinged with hatred for all the people who failed to help me.

  Both consciously and subconsciously I blocked out all the memories of what had happened between me and my father in our lounge. I did this because I didn’t understand what was happening and the easiest way to deal with it was to eliminate the memories. But even then it was too late. My whole life had changed. I constantly felt helpless and angry. I lost my enthusiasm for life. I began to avoid any kind of physical contact with others. Life hardly felt worth living. I endured, even though I didn’t know why.

  Although my father no longer had the opportunity to sexually abuse me, the physical and psychological abuse continued. It was as if he wanted to punish me for no longer being able to have his way with me sexually. He beat me for the slightest infringement of his rules, many of which, I believe, he made up simply so that he could assault me or belittle me. No matter how hard I tried to please him and my mother they always managed to find some reason to demean me. I desperately wanted some kind of positive recognition that I was someone of value.

  My longing to be recognised became so overbearing that I decided that I had to talk to my mother. I had to clarify my position in the family. I desperately wanted to be part of it. I felt that if I told her about my loneliness, if I told her about my wanting to be recognized as a human being with feelings and if I told her that I wanted to be loved and to give love in return she would understand and our relationship would change.

  One evening when I had finished my homework and my father was drinking at his pub, I went into the lounge where my mother was sitting in her favourite chair knitting and listening to the radio. I sat down in the chair opposite her, avoiding the couch and its horrible memories.

  “Mom.” I said. “I want to talk to you about something that’s very important to me."