This torment of my family had to end. Somehow, I had to figure out a way. Maybe I could tell someone what was going on. “Are you crazy? I cannot believe you just thought that. Who would you even tell that would believe you? What would happen after you told the story of the nightmare you guys are living? Would it make things better or even worse?” Julie was right. She always seemed to be right. In the end, I thought it better not to tell. The possible consequences were far too horrible to even imagine.
I asked Johnny once about the strange voice in my head, the Julie voice. He acted as if it were a silly question from a funny little kid. I had been completely serious when I asked though. I had been really concerned that I wasn’t right in the head. He had attempted to reassure me that I was completely normal by saying, “Emily, everyone has a little voice in their head that talks to them and tells them what they should and shouldn’t do. It’s called your conscience. Pinocchio’s conscience was Jiminy Cricket. Remember that story?” I did. That made sense to me and made me feel better.
I can assure you that I am not just some unimportant little voice in Emily’s head. I am not just her conscience. I know what a conscience is and I have my own. I’m a separate person. I’m part of Emily, but I’m very different. Telling someone what her father is doing would be a huge mistake. I just know it. There has to be a different way to take care of the problem, her father, and to take care of it for good. He killed her little brother already, who would be next? I now realized that there was nothing that he was not capable of doing.
CHAPTer seven
I heard my mother holler at my father. It sounded like they were in their bedroom. Their voices were muffled as if they were behind a closed door. But I could still hear them and knew that this was going to be bad. Mom never yelled at Dad. Ever. I wondered if he would kill her like he had killed my little brother. Would he end up killing us all in the end?
What was she hollering at him about anyway? Was it about Eric? I couldn't hear well enough, no matter how hard I tried. I did hear someone or something smashing into the furniture or the walls, or maybe both. That was followed by more screaming and shouting. The screaming came from my mother and the shouting was all from my father now.
Then a strange idea came to me for some reason. If I cut my tongue off, I wouldn't be able to tell. It would no longer be my fault that I couldn't save us. People would understand that I wasn't to blame if I had no tongue to speak with. Before I had a chance to think the idea through, I proceeded to sneak out of my room and down the dark hallway to get the shears. It just felt like I had to do it.
I had to hurry before anyone caught me out of bed. In the bathroom, I began carrying out my ill thought of plan. I stuck my tongue out as far as I could and opened the scissors, sticking my tongue between the blades. And then I closed the shears, waiting for the pain my sliced tongue would create. I was a little relieved but also disappointed when my tongue only slid out from between the blades. I tried again but the same thing happened. I couldn't cut my own tongue off. It was too slippery or these scissors were too dull. They were also dirty, tasting like metal and blood or something disgusting.
Without accomplishing what I had come all the way down here in the dark of the night by myself to do, I quietly brought the shears back to where they belonged. Then I headed back to my bedroom. What a stupid idea that was anyway! What was I thinking? I wasn't. Could that have been one of Julie’s ideas maybe? This time I didn’t think so. I was just desperate for the nightmare to end, and I could hear that my parents were still fighting. This was the longest fight I could ever remember between them.
I considered killing myself. But I had always been taught that if you killed yourself you wouldn't go to Heaven. You would go to Hell instead. And I felt like I was already in Hell. I didn't want to live anything like this for all of eternity. I was also taught that it was a chicken's way out. Besides that, I still held on to the dream that one day I would be rescued from this life by a wonderful man and we would get married, have children, and live happily ever after. I had read about it. Why couldn't it happen for me too?
“It’s not going to happen like that for you and you know it. It probably doesn’t happen in real life for anyone except for in those stupid books. Marriage is for idiots and men are no good. You need to stop fantasizing about this stupid fairytale you keep thinking is going to happen and wake up to reality,” Julie said in my head.
If I wanted this to end I guess my only option would be to tell my mother. She would have to figure out a way to bring an end to this. She wouldn't let it go on. “Are you stupid?! She isn’t going to do a damn thing and you know it,” Julie criticized. It was a scary idea, my tummy got all bubbly just thinking about it, but then this would finally end. It had to end and this was the best solution I could come up with. It was hard to get to sleep my heart was beating so funny, but eventually I did, holding Julie tightly so she wouldn't take off and cause trouble or do anything bad to me.
A week or so went by. Maybe it had been two weeks. We woke each morning, ate our breakfasts, did our morning chores, did our school work, and then did the rest of our chores before dinner and bed. There was a time or two when I probably could have told Mom the horrible secret that I was keeping, but each time I thought of a reason why it wasn’t the right time. When I went to bed that night, I decided that tomorrow would be the day I told my mother, no matter what.
I woke up that next morning because of a scary dream. All I could remember from it was that Eric had climbed out of his grave in the garden and tried to go upstairs to his own bed, tracking dirt all through the house as he did. Julie had stopped him somehow and made him go back to his cold, lonely resting place. More heartache, more fear. I wiped that from my mind as best as I could for now. I had something important to do that should have been done long ago, whether Julie thought so or not.
My tummy was all twisty and bubbly again, or still, I didn't even know which anymore. At least the bleeding had stopped several days ago. For this month I guess. Mom was alone and not yet drunk. Now was my chance to tell her. I went into the kitchen. “Mom?”
“Yes, Emily?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Yes?”
She was staring straight at me. My heart started beating really fast and hard again. I could feel the beating in my chest, arms, neck and face.
It was hard to look at her. Her nose was crooked and swollen; both of her eyes were black and blue. Well, more red and black than black and blue. Her right eye looked almost swollen shut. It looked like it must really hurt.
Actually, she looked sore even just sitting there cutting up the carrots. It seemed as if it took all of her effort to lift her arm from the table without letting out a scream. She was sitting awkwardly in the chair with a grimace that gave away the pain that she was trying so hard to hide. He must have really hurt her last night during that fight. I felt bad for her and started to reconsider telling her what was on my mind. She had barely finished healing from their last bad fight. But I had to tell her. No matter what the consequences ended up being. “Don’t do it Emily! She’s not going to listen and you know it,” the Julie in my head said.
My face felt like it would melt right off my bones and my stomach wouldn't last much longer before I had to use the bathroom. I thought my heart might actually pop right out of my chest.
“It's about Dad. Um...”
“What Emily? Spit it out already!” She stopped chopping the carrots to focus solely on me and what I was going to tell her.
“Never mind. I forgot.” I focused my eyes on her hands and kept them there.
“Emily Ruth, you tell me right now and stop your lying. I can tell you've got something important on your mind. Now say it.” I giggled. I couldn't help it. I was so nervous and it just came out. It was either giggle or cry. If I had started crying just then, I don't think that I would have ever been able to stop again.
Okay, just say it Emily. This is it. “Dad does bad things to
my privates. He’s really mean to all of us kids, even to the boys. Well, not Eric anymore.” She started chopping the carrots again. Her lips were pressed together and thinned out. She was angry. Good. She should be. I peed my pants a little on accident. It was warm, wet, and just a little uncomfortable.
“How dare you,” she slammed the knife down onto the table and almost howled at the pain it must have caused. “What the Hell is wrong with you?” Could she tell that I had just peed some in my pants? “Just because you don't like the way things are doesn't mean you can make up these kinds of lies about your father.”
“But Mom...”
“Don't but-Mom-me you lying bitch! Just wait till he hears about this.”
I was crying now. He would kill me for sure, or at least make me wish that he had.
“Mom! No! Please!”
“Get the fuck out of my face.” She got up from the table and grabbed her bottle of booze from the cupboard, not even caring that I was still standing there watching. I passed gas that ended up being more than gas, and peed some more. My heart was still beating so hard that it felt like it would burst right out of my chest. After it was done breaking. I had to go to the bathroom and clean myself up. Then I’d have to go to my room to change my pants and underwear. I felt filthy inside and out.
I couldn't believe that my mother didn't believe me. How could she think that I would make something like that up? She knew that I would be severely punished if she told my father what I had told her. How could she do that to me? Why couldn't she have just believed me? Julie answered quietly in my head, “Because she’s a selfish bitch and cares more about herself than you or her other kids. She’s a scaredy cat, scared of your father as much as you are. You can’t count on her.” I would never call my mother that and I didn’t believe it. I think she cared about us kids more than she cared about herself but she probably was terrified of my Dad. I didn’t blame her for that.
A little while later my father came to the door of my room with the ax in his hand and simply said, “Come on.”
I still had the snots and tears on my face from telling Mom. I wiped at them with the sleeve of my shirt and dutifully got up off my bed. I followed my father down the stairs and outside. The bright light of the day made me angry and hurt my head. The sun had no business shining. Not today.
I imagined Julie jumping up off the bed and chasing after my father. She jumped on his back and just started biting chunks from his flesh. I almost wished that would really happen. I knew that was all just my crazy imagination though.
What was he going to do to me? Where was he taking me? Was he going to make me chop off one of my own body parts? Whatever he was taking me to do I knew I was going to hate it. He wasn't going to let me get off easily for what I had done. I supposed it would be better to get my punishment done and over with, no matter what it was. If I happened to die, at least I hadn't killed myself and I would still go to Heaven.
At least the house always appeared gloomy. The house must at least know what miserable things took place here and sympathetically cast the right mood. No matter how much we cleaned and scrubbed and dusted, it seemed like there would always be a layer of dirt and dust on everything. Everything was torn and worn. Even the people. God didn't seem to extend the same courtesy with the weather.
My father brought me to the maple tree where Lucky was tied up and handed me the ax. What he expected me to do suddenly sank into my head. Oh God, please no. “This is dinner. Get it butchered and cleaned up quick so it can get cooking. Next time maybe you'll remember to keep your whore mouth shut.” I didn't dare say a word. I just stood there until he left for the house.
Lucky whined at me. He was probably wondering why I wasn't paying any attention to him. I couldn't do this. God, help me! Or kill me and get it over with! I can't do this anymore! I sat down on the hard ground that was bumpy with roots next to my dog and hugged him close to me, “I'm so sorry Lucky! I love you. Please, please know that.” Salty tears or snot or both made their way into my mouth. Lucky licked some of my tears away. Then I set him back down and stood up with the ax. I wished that my father had brought me out here with the ax to kill me instead.
I closed my eyes and tried to pretend my beloved Lucky was one of the chickens. I had never even had to butcher one of them yet. All I knew was that the boys chopped their heads off and then they ran around as if they were searching for their severed part. Hopefully it would be different with a dog. I didn't think I could bear it if he didn't actually die right away. He yelped once as the very last tear I vowed to shed fell to the dirt. I vomited from a combination of the sight of Lucky laying there bloody with his head almost completely separate from the rest of his body because of me and from grief over what I had just done. He didn't run around and never would again. I would not be eating dinner this evening, beating or not.
I was done caring. I was too emotionally exhausted from years upon years of being mistreated, beaten, and used. My beautiful horse, my baby brother, and now my beloved dog were gone. Who was next? If my father had been trying to break my spirit, he succeeded. However, he also succeeded in making me feel like I had nothing left to lose that wasn't at risk of being lost anyway if I didn't do something to end things. If I had to, I would die trying.
I picked my bloodied pet Lucky up as gently as I could (as if that would make some sort of a difference) and carried his still warm, but lifeless body back to the house. I laid him in the center of the kitchen table just the way he was, in almost two separate, blood soaked pieces. Some of the skin on his neck had stayed attached, so his head wasn't completely severed.
My mother watched me, looking shocked, as I laid our bloody pet on the center of the table and then she asked, “What the hell is this?”
“This is your dinner! Clean it yourself, Mother!”
I stomped down the hall into the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind me, and scrubbed as hard as I could at my hands and arms. I would probably feel Lucky's blood on me for a long time to come. Afterwards, when my hands and arms were red and raw from being scrubbed so hard, I went up to my room still shaking from what I had done. I hoped to be able to stay there for the rest of the evening.
Why didn’t Emily let me handle the Lucky situation? She shouldn’t have had to do that, not by herself. When will she let me help her? When will she finally see that she won’t be able to survive without my help? Hopefully the time will come soon, before it’s too late for her. The next question was: what in the world was wrong with that man and what was next? I hated just sitting back and having to watch the things he put Emily through. No one should have to go through the types of things that she did every day.
CHAPTER eight
I was amazed when no one bothered coming to my room at all. My father didn't come to beat me for being disrespectful to my mother or to beat me for not finishing the job of getting dinner fully cleaned. No one came to tell me to come down to dinner and no one come to tell me it was time to do the dishes.
The first person I saw again that evening was Caroline when she came in to get ready for bed. She seemed awfully cheerful as she said, “I did the supper dishes all by myself tonight. Daddy let me. Oops. I forgot. We aren't supposed to talk to you.”
Oh, they were supposed to give me the silent treatment as part of my punishment. That was fine with me. “I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. Good night.” I covered myself up, snuggled close to my doll, and closed my eyes. Caroline got ready for bed quickly and turned out the light.
I expected my father to come to my room that night. I didn't change out of my pants and shirt on purpose. Julie was the one that had suggested I do that. We both agreed that it probably wouldn’t stop him from doing what he wanted, but it would slow him down and make it easier to fight back.
I had tried my hardest not to fall asleep as I listened to every creak, waiting for the sound that would warn me he was on his way. It didn't matter either way, awake or asleep he would make sure he got what he came for. I eventually
lost the battle to exhaustion and woke up as I heard our bedroom door open. At least my bleeding had stopped. I shouldn’t be embarrassed about that, considering what he was going to do to me, but I couldn’t help it. He didn't speak. He never did and tonight was no different. Except that I wasn't just going to lay there and pretend that nothing was happening tonight.
My father wrestled with my pants. Especially to get them down from around my butt and thighs. I wiggled my hips and held onto my pants using my belt loops, trying to keep them from being pulled off. He yanked hard, making my pants dig into my bruised skin on their way down. I think one of my fingers was pulled out of its socket too or sprained at least. My pants had ripped.
He was grunting. He reeked of whiskey and sweat and his hands felt like wet sandpaper on my raw skin. I continued to wriggle around, trying to make him give up for the night. My muscles were getting tired fighting against someone so much bigger and stronger than I was. I knew it was a losing battle, but fighting was all I had left to do.
Detached: Book 1 of the Fleischer Series Page 6