Someone is screaming, “Stop! Let go!” But the child won’t let go, he keeps running, he’s grabbing at someone or something, a person yells, “Let go, I say” – I can’t see the child’s face anymore – I see blood – a large bundle of something – blood trickling down the back of hands – it’s the child’s hands, he’s giving up his hold on someone or something – now there’s only dust and the child stands there in the road very still – but sobbing as only a child of seven can.
Because no one around knew of this incident, and none of those involved were likely to talk about it, for the child it all seemed like a dream, something that had never existed – someone leaning toward him as if to pick him up, but instead beating his hands with something made out of wood – the cloud of dust around it made it feel like it had never really happened. There was one or two times when the person most involved in this started to talk about it but each time something in the child’s face stopped the talk but the person often referred to the child as “the criminal.” When the child asked about this name the person said, “It was because the child had made such a scene at seven. The child put it away with things that are best forgotten. If the child told anyone about it now, all the whole thing would come alive again; it would all start happening again, as if the incident had never stopped for years.
I’m thinking right now that, “a good memory is no blessing.” So much has happened that I don’t want to think about. I don’t know if any of it is important or not. All I know is that I seemed to see as if I had the child’s eyes, and heard as if I had the child’s ears, as I put this down in spite of appearances, things are not as they ought to be, but this must be the way it is with everyone. At least as long as one is alive there’s still hope of changing isn’t there? Enough of this, I’ll sign off till next time.
Me
AUTOMATIC LETTER 7
Saturday night
Hi again,
I just had an upsetting dream. In it I was killed. It was a child’s nightmare. A dream like that is just a trick of the mind because in real life it was Gloria’s cat that was killed. Well, I’m settling into a state of relaxation so I won’t dwell on the dream.
Will try to observe the flow of thoughts that came in an objective way. I’m seeing the seven year old child who learned early that life’s purpose is survival. I haven’t allowed myself to think of this incident since the last time I spoke to you of it. As I think of it now, I’d be lying if I said that I feel fine. I’m nervous, even scared and I’m feeling my fear for what it is – am even thankful that I know it’s fear, and know it for what it is.
I remember telling you that there was a note left for the child after the adults left. Someone would be there, to be with the child the next day. That’s not what happened though. The child remained alone for days – from what I know, it was four nights that he was alone. There’s so much that I don’t want to think about.
Still Saturday
Early morning
Hi,
Relaxed once more – will continue about the child left alone. I’m looking at him now. I still can’t make out the face.
It’s morning, the child is waking the light slashing in, hurts his eyes – his throat hurts – he’s rubbing his eyes trying to put together what is happening. He seems to have been on a long and painful journey, yet it’s familiar where he is. He remembers, it’s the people who went on a trip. Sometimes when he thinks of the others, he feels lost and alone – there are too many cross people, better to forget them. Then he remembers someone will be coming today to be with him – he notices blood on his hands and arms and all of a sudden it all feels like it’s too much just to move – it’s a struggle to get to the house – once there, he gets water winces at every swallow, washes the blood off – gets back to a cot and falls asleep.
Its late afternoon – the child keeps his eyes closed trying to hang on to sleep. He’s telling himself, “You don’t have to worry,” but he’s remembering someone yelling, “Stop! Let go!” and his hands – the blood – the dust – the tears start – the lump in his throat hurts real bad. The child makes no move to get up – just stays huddled, his face to the wall – he seems to know that no one will come because he’s very worried. Thoughts of all kinds hit him. “I’m alone, I’m sick, if I get worse who will take care of me, what if I can’t eat, what if I can’t sleep at night – what if I have to spend the days and nights always like this?” He moans – he sleeps.
It’s nighttime – the child awakens its dark – he’s afraid – the fever dreams made him restless – all about something chasing him, something he could fight off if only he knew what it was. In his dreams, he’d try to run and couldn’t. Each time he opened his eyes the walls seemed to be closing in on him, he can’t breathe – the walls are falling.
Time to stop – feel too drained to remember more. Will get to it later.
I’m very thankful that you care enough to listen, or I’d feel lost.
Me
AUTOMATIC LETTER 8
Sunday night
Hi,
Here I am again. Gloria awoke and I’m taking over. I appreciate the help you give us – it gives me strength to go on with all this. Now to get back to the child. It was by accident that he was left alone for three days – something no one could have known would happen – three days, but four nights.
The days drifted by and the child somehow got through them, and when he awoke each morning he was always surprised, he was alone – something had changed – he could not have put into words what it was, but he felt he didn’t have to fight back for once, that it was okay to rest.
On the fourth day in the afternoon, he awoke to find the people back, he was enveloped by arms, a familiar smell and his cheeks were wet with someone else’s tears.
I can see the child now, someone is holding his face between two hands, someone is looking down on him, crying uncontrollably – I can’t see the face – everyone is talking at once – he wonders if they know where and how he had been living – he starts to ask and he’s crying, he feels ashamed but can’t stop. The child is crying, someone is saying to him, “We’re here, it’ll soon be over.” The child insists, “It’s not a dream, I’m awake,” and someone says, “You’re awake now, but you had a bad dream.”
The child isn’t crying anymore. He knows that the days and nights he lived alone was something more than your ordinary bad dream; he knows it does no good to keep talking about it and he lets it go at that. For a long time after the child was to feel that you had to watch out for bad things every minute and good things would not come unless you made them happen yourself. His stubbornness, his anger, his pride had brought him through. As for the people who returned, it was easy for them to feed a starving body – a starving heart was much harder to feed. But life was to continue as it always does.
Me again
AUTOMATIC LETTER 9
Wednesday night
Hi again,
A little girl sat straight up in the darkness of her bedroom and screamed.
The nightmare that had awakened her was so vivid that for a few moments she thought she might still be in the woods being abused by a menacing figure. It was a dream but it was real too because the figure was in that very house. In the dream we couldn’t tell whether the chasing figure was a man or a woman but awake she knew it was a man. Outside the storm that had been raging when she fell asleep had stopped. In its place moonlight filtered in through the window and washed her room with a pale glow.
It should have been reassuring but the dream was still there, springing out at her from the shadows of the room like the flickering images that still darted through her mind. The killer had scuttled after her through the woods like a beastly forest creature hunting prey. She had been caught in the killer’s strong arms and carried off to a haunted cabin deep in the woods. That’s when she screamed and woke up. In her mind the dream was so vivid that when she saw the sleeping figure on the floor near her bed she screamed again.
“What’s the matter are you having another nightmare?” he asked. “Don’t worry I’m here to take care of you, nobody will hurt you.”
How could she tell him that he was the one, she was so afraid would hurt her. The nightmare had become real. He had a room why didn’t he go to sleep in it instead of her little room. She had a lot of answers but none made any sense.
She had a lot of questions but no one to answer them except him and he wouldn’t make any sense. “How long could the nightmares go on before she lost her mind,” was one of the questions?
Me
AUTOMATIC LETTER 10
Saturday night
Hi again,
I feel a little numb, as I begin this chat with you – it’s like drifting through darkness. Often, these talks start out like this and then I remember that if I’m going to help you to help Gloria, I must try to tell you the incidents that Gloria would have trouble talking about, the happenings that she has forgotten. When I do this, there are times when a memory traps me. It’s like when you cross a street and a car comes around the corner out of control; you try to jump out of the way; no chance, it’s too late. In this way a memory can trap you.
The numbness has worn off. Suddenly, I’m very uneasy. I have to tell you something. It’s something else you should know. The term “the criminal” was real and personal to someone. This is not what I want to say. I’ll start again.
What can I tell you about Gloria that would be of interest to anyone? Nothing! I’ll be filling up some pages having to do with nothing. It was a mistake to talk about all the other things that happened. I don’t want to think of these incidents or touch them with a mind. If you don’t choose to believe something you can blank it out, separate yourself from it. Even if it is the truth, even if it came after you in the dark and held you down, you can separate yourself from it.
Yet always there’s this great black lake of time that has to be crossed. Even if you knew it was hopeless, what else could you do? You had to keep swimming; you could not drown either. “The child,” I’ve talked to you about knew this feeling of despair.
I see the Criminal. He is ten years old and he does not cry. He has learned that lesson well. “Are you crying? I told you never to do that!” The blow that knocks him across the room the pain inside his head – he has bitten his tongue – the blood – he’s starting to cry. “Now, I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget. I’m going to beat you until you stop crying. Then I’m going to teach you to tell the truth – the truth is you slipped and fell down the stairs – do you hear me – you slipped – that’s the truth. I didn’t throw you down –you slipped – say it after me – I slipped – say it – say it. Don’t you dare cry! You’re a criminal – you know what they do to criminals, they burn them with a capital letter C, then they send them away alone – don’t ask questions – are you crying again. I’ll teach you not to cry – come over here – you know what happens if I have to come and get you.”
I see someone thrown down the stairs – a bottle broken in half – a clenched fist – punching – kicks – biting – pinching. I see someone tied to a bed – can’t breathe can’t think well – no help for it, none is available. Didn’t matter what you said or did, either it was coming or it was not. There’s things you should forget about or pretend it never happened. Don’t believe what I just said. I believe instead, that whatever happens it’s not worth the pain of keeping it a secret, you have to decide who wants to hurt you and who wants to help and it’s important to learn this right or a lot of mistakes will be made.
I’ve tried to relax yet my nerves are at the mercy of sounds – footsteps – a door being slammed – waiting, staring down at his plate and knowing that being ignored meant being in danger, it meant you were in this person’s thoughts. “You’re going to get it, do you know why?” He never knew, he knew that pulling himself inward, staying calm didn’t help, nothing did.
“Oh, if you would just try to be good. Why do you break the rules?” Say nothing. It doesn’t matter what is said. “Ye, shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” Well it didn’t make the ten year old free. He knew the truth all right but didn’t feel free, not with something tight around the neck, don’t go too fast or too far – you just don’t do it – that’s all.
To be alive was to be in danger – all the time. And you don’t talk about that. You just go along thinking things will get better. One day you think this is the way things are.
Tired out – thank you for listening
The Helper
NOTE:
I am a professional therapist and battle-hardened war veteran, yet my eyes shimmered wet as I sat reading the Helper’s letter. It was the first time, but not the last, that I would shed tears over the child’s pain.
AUTOMATIC LETTER 11
Tuesday night
Dear Adam,
Tonight I had trouble falling asleep, and when I did, I dreamed I was no longer human. I dreamed of red stars and bursts of fire. The earth shook with something deep within itself. I thought WATER because I could smell it. Water means warmer, so I tracked the smell. I was lucky to be alive; the bird eggs I found were like me, but were more exposed to the cold and froze.
I had trouble remembering anything before now. What it was like following the “Thing” that was like me but bigger, feeding in whatever it left behind, panicking whenever I left the “Thing” that was like me but bigger, because I knew if I lost it, it would never turn around to look for me. Turning around, stopping meant the end of me.
At the very beginning, there were the eggs I had to pick up so I could follow the “Thing” that was like me but bigger. We were together until the “Thing” that was bigger wouldn’t let me near its kill and he struck out at me.
I heard a roar from my throat and I was so hungry that I wouldn’t give up. The “Thing” that was like me but bigger went away, leaving behind in a pool of blood. I understood then, I no longer followed the “Thing” that was like me because it was no longer bigger – it had disappeared. When I see something that looks like me, I am ready to fight if I have to but I don’t want to, so I wait and often the “Other” looks at me and glares with dead hateful eyes.
The Helper
AUTOMATIC LETTER 12
Sunday night
Hi,
I’m kind of drifting now and it’s really peaceful. It won’t be for long because I’m going to the home of the ten year old child, there’s something I have to see.
I’m seeing the ten year old now, he looks more like eight, and he’s so short. He’s sitting at a small desk writing down the rules. He’ll never learn them all – the ones that must be obeyed from the ones that will be forgotten tomorrow – too easy to make a mistake. Today you couldn’t use this door, tomorrow this room is off limits. Or that chair. If you forget about the line and walk across it you’ll be picked up and thrown across the room – slammed up against the wall like you’re a piece of wood and you’ll think you’re going deaf because your ears will ring for a week. Something will be spilled on the floor accidentally and you will hear, “You are a dumb, careless animal and a criminal too!” I see the child crouched, trembling on his knees, his head down, he raises his shoulder to ward off the blow.
I see a face again across the room – that blank, stiff look of the face, it was the look just before the person would turn its back. Very tired now so will end this.
The Helper
AUTOMATIC LETTER 13
Wednesday night
Hi again,
I’m thankful that this writing gives me a chance to “keep in touch” with you. It’s been a night of wild dreams. First, my dream was that I was in a car going fast down hills and curves and I wasn’t doing the driving – there was no driver. Then I had another dream. In this dream, I’m in a house, not my own house but it is familiar all the same. Outside in the darkness people are screaming; a wild beast is running the streets – in the house, I’m struggling with a broken loc
k, knowing that even if I can fix the lock in time, it’s only a flimsy screen and it won’t make me safe from the thing outside. I am furious at whoever has left me in this predicament helpless and unprotected. Next, I’m outside the house on a dark street alone and when I try to look back to see the house I was in, I see all the buildings have somehow moved back and formed into one large wall. Its cold out, the street is icy white glare. Whenever I breathe out, my breath takes the form of somebody’s face. I want to know whose face it is but I wake up before I can see it.
I’m relaxed at this time and my mind is able to sit back and observe the flow of thoughts and feelings within me. I want to see the face that I was chasing after in the frightening dream I had. I’m walking down the street looking for the face – I see a wagon carrying several people and sticks of furniture – I see a face, dusty, streaming with tears, the face is screaming “Let go!” I see no face now – just arms lifting the wood into the air and bringing it down on someone’s hands again and again, lifting it up and beating the hands that are hanging on to the wagon – red blood is trickling down the back of the bruised left hand – I see the face sort of blurred – the face doing the beating and the person with the bleeding hands sees it too because the hands give up their hold on the rough wooden board.
Suddenly, I see the face more distinctly, and I walk forward again and I know who it is and now that I know who it is, the whole street is overwhelmed with rain and the ground is turning into mud – the mud comes up higher and higher, it’s at the top of my boots and if I don’t move it will keep rising up above my head. I see the face who did the beating of the hands again but I’m going to get out of this state of awareness before the mud gets too deep to walk through. I want to forget all this but don’t let me forget it because it is important.
The Helper
NOTE:
Gloria Rising: A Story of Hope and Survival In Dark Evil Places Page 3