Tag Archives: Fiction

I’m sorry for my hypocrisy

I'm sorry for my hypocrisy

I haven’t always been so true,

No one knows this more than you.

When your child was abused too,

I said, “This is what you should do.”

 

“You should definitely speak out!”

My words becoming a shout.

You should’ve given me a clout

And said, “Go sort yourself out.”

 

For yet, and all the while,

I was drowning in denial,

That though I continued to smile,

I was protecting a paedophile.

 

You slowly drifted away,

Saying, ‘’”We’re much too busy today,

For the kids to come and play.”

Our friendship was in decay.

 

In the intervening years,

I have shed so many tears,

For my cynicism and sneers,

Arising from my inner fears.

 

I miss you with a passion,

My heart and soul are ashen,

But not for my inaction,

We would still have interaction.

 

So, here for all to see,

Is my full apology,

For the person I used to be,

And my ignorant hypocrisy.

Why Lie?

Why lie?

Why lie?

Dear Ms Bréagadóir,

You stood there, looked me in the eye, showing concern, and that you cared. Surrounded, as we were, by hypocrites, I took your consideration at face value, because I had seen no involuntary withdrawal, nothing at all to indicate you were anything other than genuine.

In the following weeks, I discovered you were, in fact, being false, accumulating ammunition, and lying your scrawny freaking arse off!

I have no idea why you felt the need to lie.  It would have been so much better if you had been honest, and told me you didn’t want to speak to me.  So many people there that day wanted nothing to do with me, and I was okay with that. They made it very clear that I was so much less than pond scum, and it was their right to do so.  Apparently, you also felt that way, so why pretend?  Why stand there and tell lies?  Why betray me and add more pain to the hurt I was already burdened with?

To say I am disappointed is a mighty understatement.

So, you don’t believe me?  Who cares?  Ninety-nine point nine percent of everyone who was around us in that moment don’t believe me either.  My respect for them, however, is in tact.  Why?  Because they did not lie.  They did not pretend to have any concern or consideration for me, or my feelings, at all. They were up-front and honest – they don’t like me, they don’t believe me, and most of them even hate me.  So?  They are entitled to their opinion.

You, however, stood right in front of me and expressed disgust at the actions being described to you.  You blatantly lied about your knowledge, and that of others.  You told me we should keep in touch.  You hugged me.  You expressed concern.  You reminisced about the ‘good old days’ and things I had done for you, and that we had done together, in the past.

All the while, I now know, you were being fraudulent.  Everyone, I have been told, knew everything there was to know about what was going on – from one person’s perspective, at least – and they had also spent many an hour discussing the situation and bad-mouthing me and those who support me.  You, I now know, participated in those conversations, and many that have been had since that day.  Your thoughts and feelings of the situation were in total opposition to mine, and yet you deliberately set out to make me think otherwise.

Did you find it funny? Was it ‘good value’ from a practical joke point of view? Did you get plenty of mileage from the ‘hilarity’ of deceiving me?

How lucky for you that you weren’t the one molested and raped.  Imagine what it would have been like if you had been.  Have you ever wondered, what if it is true?  Have you ever considered what it might be like for someone to experience that?

Your mother asked me once if I would ever take any action.  At the time of the conversation, I said I didn’t think so.  I told her I believed he would have to account for his actions to someone other than me – my meaning was to God, or some other Higher Power.

Now I wonder how you will account for your actions.  What will you say when it is time for you to atone for your life on earth?  How will you excuse your duplicity?  What reasons will you provide?

I wish you well when the time comes.

Regards,

Fírinne

Hear no evil

Hear no evil

Hear no evil

“Seriously, why can’t all you ‘survivors’ just shut the fuck up?  Why do you have to ruin people’s lives?  I mean, it all happened years ago, right?  So, why can’t you just get over it?  Why can’t you leave it be?  Why do you have to drag it all up, and destroy other people?”

“Steve!” Enid exclaimed.  “Don’t be so rude!”

“Oh, that’s okay, Enid.  Steve is entitled to his opinion.”

“But…”

“Enid, don’t be embarrassed.  There a lot of people out there who think and feel just like Steve.  So, Steve, do you really want to know why we ‘survivors’ speak out?  Or, are you just letting off steam?”

“Oh, I’d really like to know.  I am so sick of hearing about people having a good old whinge because they were abused as a child.  I wish you’d all go die in a hole together somewhere, you know?  You’re all a mob of sooks – wimps who can’t take a well-deserved thrashing, and now want everyone else to pay.”

“Really?  Steve, you have a daughter, right?”

“Yep.”

“And how old is she?”

“Four.”

“And you wouldn’t dream of having sex with her right?”

“Are you kidding?  She’s my daughter, for fuck’s sake!”

“True, but some people do have sex with their children, and even when the kids are younger than your daughter.  All you have to do is pick up any newspaper and you will see it is happening all the time.”

“I hadn’t really noticed.”

“Anyway, you knew my father quite well, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s why I reckon you’re lying.  He wouldn’t have done any of the things you say he done.”

“Ah, but he did.  And his favourite age for young girls was six years old – not much older than your daughter.  Most of his friends have young daughters.  He would spend lots of time with their parents and, in the process, lots of time with the girl.  He would tell the parents he could mind their daughter if ever they needed time out…”

“Like he did for us?”

“Yep, just like that.  Over time, usually a few years, he would then start making the girl feel special – praise her for doing things that pleased him, giving her special treats, treating her like she was a little princess.  If they were a little older, he would play on their budding sensuality, flirt with them, tease them to make them blush, touch them ever so slightly here and there to get them used to being near him.  Talk dirty, occasionally.  I’m sure you’ve seen this happen?”

“Like he was doing with Jessie?”

“Exactly.  His favourite thing of all, was to take them away for a weekend or school holidays – camping or something similar – take them to somewhere they’d never been before.  All in the name of education, of course.”

“Didn’t he take Margaret to the city once?”

“Yes, he did.”

“That doesn’t mean he did anything.”

“True, but what if I am not lying, and he did?  How would you feel then?”

“Dunno.”

“From the way you have spoken before, Steve, it sounds like you hate me for speaking out?”

“Yeah, you killed him.”

“You are entitled to your opinion, but what if the things I am telling you are true?  How would you feel about me if I hadn’t spoken out?  If I hadn’t brought this to people’s attention, and he had continued grooming your daughter?  What if he had put his fingers in your daughter’s vagina because I hadn’t broken the silence and tried to stop him molesting other girls?  What if he progressed to raping her?  How would you feel about me then?  If I had known what he was like, but never said anything?”

“I’d be pretty pissed.”

“You would probably hate me even more than you do now.”

“But I don’t think he did what you said.”

“Go away and think about it.  Think about all the times you have seen him with your daughter, had her on his knee, tickled her under her shirt, showered with her.  Think of all the times you have seen him with other girls.  Really look at how he behaved.  The inappropriate double-entendres with prepubescent and teenage girls.  The eagerness to have young girls stay over.  The trips away with one or two girls at a time…”

“But his wife was always with him.”

“I was molested with my mother in the room.  I can guarantee it can happen in a split second and right in front of other people.  Where there is a will there’s a way, and he had perfected his methods.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Just think about it.”

“Maybe.”

“Steve, there are lots of other reasons we speak out, but the safety of those still in danger is often a major factor in the decision.  The reason it usually takes so long, apart from all the psychological damage that has to be worked through, is that most people who were abused as a child think they are the only victim.  If it’s only them, why bother?  But when others are at risk of experiencing what we’ve experienced, the matter becomes urgent.”

“I still don’t think it’s true.”

Moving

Moving

A moving story

Four days!  Four whole days!  Can you believe it?

I was relaxing by the window, just enjoying the view, when suddenly I was locked in a car.  I had no idea where I was going.  I couldn’t get out.  I had no room to run.  The car was jam-packed with stuff.  Stuff!

I cried.  I howled.  I expressed my unhappiness is so many ways.

The first day was not too bad.  It was a relatively short journey.  I was so excited when the car stopped.  I thought I’d have a chance to escape, but it wasn’t to be.  I was locked in a bathroom!  A bathroom!  You’ve got to be kidding?

No light.  No company.  Just me, the cold floor tiles, a shower and a toilet.  I was given a pillow to lie on, but what was the point?  I scratched at the door.  I cried some more.  Let me out!

Eventually I collapsed from exhaustion.

I saw the sun through the bars on the window the next morning.  I hoped to be going home.  She was talking to me through the door.  Telling me everything was going to be okay.  I didn’t believe her.

I was locked in the car once more.  I had no idea where we were going or how long it would take.  It seemed like forever.

The car stopped.  I was manhandled and told to go to the toilet.  Excuse me?   The indignity!  I didn’t need to go, well, I did, but I wasn’t going to urinate on command.

Back in the car.  Hours and hours and hours went by.  The light began to fade as the sun went down.  Again I was dragged out of the car and dumped in a small room.  At least it wasn’t a bathroom, I guess.

This time there was a comfy bed.  Some nice food, and some milk.  I still cried.  I still voiced my disapproval.  I just wanted to go home.  Why was she doing this to me?

Day three and it was back in the car.  I was too drained to fight.  The heat was unbearable.  I was panting like a dog.  A dog, of all things!  She stopped the car and put a rope around my neck.  She took me to a river.  I froze.  Petrified she was going to drown me in it.  I couldn’t move.  I didn’t know what to do.  The heat!  The flies! 

I didn’t drown, but I almost wish I had.  Back in the car!  This time I just hid.  I buried myself under all of the stuff.  Who cared about the heat?  I didn’t want to know.

Another small room as the sun went down.  Another bed, but not so comfy.  I slid under the covers and curled up tight.  I just hoped this would all end soon.

Day four.  She was excited.  Her voice became shrill.  It was painful to hear.  She was waffling about how great it was going to be.  Great?  Locked in a car for days on end?  What planet was this being on?  This was the furthest thing from great I could think of.  How dare she drag me away from home?  How dare she keep me from escaping?  How dare she even think that I would enjoy this?

The car stopped.  “We’re here!” she shrieked.

Where’s ‘here’?  What?  A house?

My confused mind had been addled by the trip.  I no longer knew where I was, what day it was, and I almost forgot who I was. 

Four days!  Four whole days!  It took four days to get here – to my new home. 

The Truth

Truth

I discovered this short story in my draft folder from September 2010.  

Collapsed in the corner, Tanya feels raw and exposed.  She feels like her skin has been stripped from her body.  She has carried the burden of The Truth inside for thirty years and it has eaten her alive from the inside out.  Her annihilation will be complete when the shell of her body finally gives way to The Truth’s crushing weight.

Tanya knows she should be feeling relieved.  She knows she should be proud of what she so recently accomplished.  She knows her family expects her recovery will now be complete and The Truth will no longer matter.  She knows others think she has weathered the worst and she has come out the other side beaten and bruised, but relatively intact.  She knows they are wrong.

Confronting her fears and taking The Truth to the one person that can validate her memories has used up the last of her strength and energy.  Tanya is barely able to breathe.  Her brain is low on battery power and the signals are not reaching their destination.  The pain streaming from her pores is all she can focus on.  The pressure of The Truth across the back of her neck and shoulders feels like a yoke.  Cries of anguish emit from her lips, but Tanya is oblivious to the sound.

Denial would have been easier to handle.  Tanya had planned contingencies for that.  Even anger would have been better than the calmness she had just encountered.  His lack of regard for the enormity of the impact The Truth has had on her, even after Tanya gave details, left her hanging onto life by one miniscule thread of hope.  A thread that seemed certain to snap at the slightest application of pressure.  A thread so frayed and stretched to capacity, it could be argued that its attachment to life did not exist at all.

A part of Tanya is fervently wishing the thread will break so she can enter the promised oblivion of non-existence.  However, out of nowhere, another part of her is praying in equal measure for survival.  Trying to ignore the vague hope within, Tanya wraps herself in loneliness.  The invisible cloak stings her exposed flesh, and it is almost too much to bear.

Tanya knows she will soon have to face the world.  She imagines her responsibilities hanging over her head like an executioner’s axe.  One false move and the blade will fall.

Distracted, her brain engages in this fantasy, and Tanya visualises her corpse being picked over and analysed.  She knows they will only see a body – headless and bloody.  No-one will know or understand the terror she has experienced.  Physical signs of torment will not exist.  Her mental and emotional scars will not be seen by even the most experienced scientific eye.  So, will that mean that her life has been wasted?

Tanya feels desolate at the thought of having lived for nothing.  Has she existed only to carry the burden of The Truth, and to drown in its pain?

The tiny thread of hope shudders and grows a little stronger.

Tanya’s keening stops and she struggles to sit.  On auto-pilot, she begins to draw deep, slow breaths and to still her mind.  Her meditation practice kicks in and her breath becomes endless – no beginning, no end – just a gentle flow of life, in and out.

The calming effects are almost immediate.  Tanya feels her muscles begin to relax and her mental strength begin to increase.  She allows herself to rest for a few more minutes, and then she pulls herself up.  She leans against the wall for a moment, takes a deep breath in, and moves to the nearest chair.  Her legs are shaking as she walks and she stumbles, falling into the chair rather than sitting.

Once seated, Tanya again questions the reason for her existence.  What if her years of torture caused by The Truth have been for a reason?  What if there is a purpose to her life after all?

The thread of hope grows stronger as she contemplates the possibilities.  The pain is still there.  How can she use her emotions to achieve something positive?  Tanya considers this change in her thinking.  Moments ago she was seeking oblivion, and yet here she is contemplating moving forward into life!  Is it possible there are others like her in need of someone who understands?  Pondering this question, for what seems like hours, Tanya arrives at the conclusion that there must be.

Not caring if this answer came from fact or wishful thinking, Tanya dries her eyes and starts to formulate a plan in her mind.

Why?

“I can’t believe you even need to ask that question.  In fact, that you’ve asked it shows just how much you don’t understand!  Let me tell you something, never knowing from one minute to the next whether you are the child, the cook, the cleaner, or the lover, tends to mess with your head.  Add to that, the absolute bewilderment of having someone literally knock the living daylights out of you, unexpectedly, and for a reason or reasons unknown, and you start to doubt your own sanity – even as a child.  And when you are constantly threatened with your own, or someone else’s, torturous death if you so much as make a peep about what was going on – and you know the person making the threats is well and truly capable of doing just that – well, you learn pretty quick to put up and shut up.  On top of all that, things like incest and child sexual abuse were not discussed in private, let alone in the media, thirty, forty, or fifty years ago.  There were no kids helplines, no public education that such things occurred, or that they were wrong.  Back then, kids didn’t have rights.  What did it matter if a mother beat her son in private, or a father had sex with his daughter?  What happened behind closed doors, stayed behind closed doors.  But think about the behaviour.  Think about the number of attempts to run away, the severe mood swings, the total lack of respect as a teenager, the drinking, the drugs… Oh, that’s right, you just assign those things to her being a bitch of a child.  Headstrong, inconsiderate, uncontrollable… those are the words I have heard you use before.  You, yourself, put pressure on her not to say anything, even though she was in her twenties then.  You never questioned then, that what she said was true, and you still did nothing to help.  All you were worried about was that she might bring the family into disrepute.  Well, you disgust me!  And you have absolutely no right to now ask why she had to speak out!”

Senility

I just don’t understand.  Everything was moving forward, falling into place, and dragging me along for the ride, but now… nothing.  Worse than nothing.

What am I going to do?  I made all these promises that now, I can’t keep.  Dozens of people are relying on me, but I can’t come through for them.  I’ve lost everything.

Slowly I am drowning, dying, disappearing into nothingness.  Maybe they won’t notice.  Maybe… maybe I don’t really exist.  Maybe everything I think is real, really isn’t.  I thought what I had was real, but it wasn’t.  Maybe I am hallucinating.

Oh, what am I going to do?  No job.  No home.  No family.  Nothing.

This grass is cold.  My bum’s all wet from the dew.  My face is burning, but I don’t know why.  I don’t think I care.  I just need to work out how it all went so wrong. 

I smell.  I need a bath.  A shower.  Where was that pond I passed yesterday?  Why don’t they put taps in parks anymore?  What caused me to be here?  What did I fail to see, or do?

Dad always said I’d amount to nothin’.  How did he know?  “Useless as tits on a bull,” he said.  “Thick as two bricks, and not much bloody smarter.”  Well, I guess he was right.  I can’t be too smart to have lost what I’ve lost.

There’s no way out.  I’m pretty sure.  I mean, what can I do?  I have nothing to give, nothing to make up for everything.  It was all going so well.  What went wrong?

The sun’s up now.  It’s getting hot.  Steam’s rising from the ground as the heat boils the dew.  I can’t go back there.  I just can’t.  They’ll do things to me I just can’t bear.  The pain’s too much.  I need some peace.

“George!”

Oh, shit!  She found me!  I can’t get up.  There’s nowhere to hide.

“George!  What on earth are you doing here in the garden?  You’re all wet, and what’s that on your face?  Ugh, you smell like turpentine, what have you been up to?  Everyone’s been looking for you.  You were going to play the organ for the dance.  Come along now, George.”

“But it all went wrong.  I’ve lost everything.”

“That was years ago, George.  You’ve got a nice home with us now.  C’mon, the nurses will help you.”