Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (39 page)

“Scars are
not injuries… a scar is a healing. After injury, a scar is what makes you
whole.”

— China
Miéville

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant and I
spend a pleasant half-hour chatting at the kitchen table. By tacit agreement,
we speak only about light, easy subjects. He tells me stories about his garden
and André, while I tell him stories about Mitten and André.

André is a topic
that makes us both of us smile.

The progress
Grant’s made in one day is awe-inspiring. How far will he go if I’m here with
him for months? I have so much hope for his future… and mine.

When we finally
get up from the table, I let Mitten inside the house so he can sleep with me,
as he usually does. He immediately comes inside, rubbing himself against my
legs as soon as I call his name.

With Mitten on
my shoulder, Grant and I check on Briley. He’s sleeping soundly.

“Goodnight,
darlin’,” Grant says in the hallway outside my bedroom. He leaves his hands at
his sides, leans over and gives me a chaste kiss, a soft and sweet press of his
lips to mine. “And goodnight to you, Mitten,” he adds, giving my cat a gentle
scratch under the chin.

“Goodnight,” I
reply. “See you in the morning.” I raise my hand and gently run my fingertips
over his facial scars.

Grant’s body
trembles and his eyes widen slightly. He tries to mask his response, but he
likes it when I caress the disfiguring marks on his face. Does he sense my
acceptance of him by that simple gesture?

Touching his
scars is a spontaneous and irresistible desire on my part. They’re beautiful to
me. His injuries don’t define him, yet they show the world just how strong he
truly is. For the hundredth time, I wonder how in the hell he got them and why
it’s such a damned secret.

Will he ever
tell me? If we stay together, I hope he will. I like to think that a committed,
long-term relationship is based on trust. For it to work, both partners need to
be open enough to bare their souls.

I brush my
teeth, wash my face and get ready for bed. It’s been a significant day of
progress and firsts. So much has happened that I’m both emotionally drained and
physically exhausted.

Something Grant
said earlier is on my mind.

I was able to
get into it and enjoy it because my attention was on you. I connected with you.
I wanted to please you. It made everything we were doing seem good and clean
and right somehow.

I grin, thinking
about how I can use such extremely valuable information in future sessions.
When his attention is focused on pleasing me, he is apparently able to get out
of his own head. So? All I have to do is get him to concentrate on pleasing
me
.

I am
so
not complaining!

Sex with Grant
is as hot as hell.

Sounds like a
win-win and more particularly, an erotic win for me. I lick my lips, imagining
the things he might do to me—or let me do to him, while he concentrates on my
pleasure.

Mmm…

I picture
myself naked, on my knees, and sucking his raging hard-on. Grant’s large hands
are on my head, he’s directing my movements. I flash on the image of him taking
me doggy-style, or driving in deep with me bent over a chair, or shoved up
against a wall. I picture his mouth tugging at my breasts, or with his face
down between my legs once more, licking and sucking…

Damn!
Simply
the thought of him is incendiary.

Tonight was the
first time he ever went down on a woman? Holy hell, the guy’s a fucking natural.
I’m honored to be his first.

Surprisingly, I
realize what I’m most looking forward to is raw, sexy kissing. Kissing is so
personal and utterly primal.

Grant hasn’t
really
kissed me yet.

As I turn off
the light and climb into bed, I find myself thinking about my first love. Jamie
was loyal and loving. He would have done anything for me.

Unfortunately, I
still can’t think of Jamie without remembering his cold, dead body lying next
to me, the suspicious and condemning expressions on the faces of the police who
questioned me, and the unpleasant month or two I was forced to spend in a
psychiatric hospital.

Now, I feel safe
and protected with Grant. He cares about me and it’s a wonderful feeling.

I stroke Mitten,
who purrs loudly, soothing my raw nerves. I’m happy, I’m tired—yet I’m also
wired.

Perhaps being
around Briley is affecting me. Today and tonight, I’ve touched upon a few
emotionally-charged memories of my own. Whatever the reason, I fall into a
troubled sleep, and I have a nightmare.

Once more, I'm
forced to re-live one of the worst times in my painful past.

No! No! Not
again! It’s only a dream!
I tell my sleeping self.
I’m not a child
anymore!
But I’m caught. I can’t stop this.

“To achieve
your dreams, sometimes you must first face your nightmares.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Renata
Koreman

In my dream
,
I jerk awake, terrified.

This is how I
feel when I open my eyes every morning. It’s how I spend every day. Everything
scares me.

Rain thumps
loudly, echoing on our metal roof. Today is my birthday. I’m twelve. It doesn’t
feel any different than being eleven did.

I’m wearing
the same clothes I wore yesterday and the day before. I sit up, pull the thin
window curtain back and look outside.

I frown.
Crap. Some of the things I washed are hanging out in the rain. I don’t have
anything else to wear.

I turn my
head, listening carefully.

Nothing.

Outside in
the street, I can hear cars and trucks roaring by and a dog is barking in the
distance. These are not scary sounds. These sounds are OK.

I hop off my
bed and I hurt. My body shakes as I remember the reason why. I rub my back.
Bruises. I’m sore from the last beating my father gave me. He caught my wrist
and held me in place.

I hate that.
I hate being unable to get away.

I wasn’t fast
enough.

I should have
hidden myself the second he came home, but he was smiling. That’s not normal
for my daddy. Sometimes he brings me candy or a little present. Sometimes my
father is nice, but not that often.

Then Daddy
found out Mommy didn’t have any beer in the fridge and it made him angry. I can
still hear what he always says to me, “You stupid little bitch! Shut up! Stop
crying!”

The sound of
his voice in my head cuts right through me. I’m very quiet now. I don’t cry
anymore. I never make a sound.

He hits me
harder when I cry.

I hope Mommy
goes out and gets him some beer today. Does she have any money? Maybe she won’t
get out of bed. Mommy takes special pills the doctor gave her. I hope she gets
better soon.

Daddy hits
her, too.

If I run and
hide fast enough, he won’t hit me—he’ll hit her instead.

I feel really
bad about that, but I’m not very brave.

I’d rather he
hit her.

I don’t want
to hear anything. I don’t want to see anything. I don’t want to feel anything.

My eyes move
to the place where I usually hide, inside a cardboard box I keep in the closet.
It’s safe there. My Daddy never finds me in there. I love the darkness inside
my box. I love the quiet.
Sounds are muffled while I'm in my box. I
block everything out. I pretend I'm safe. Everything’s OK when I'm in there.

“Shut up or
I’ll give you something to cry about!” he yells.

I flinch as I
remember. I've heard him say that a million times. He means what he says. It's
best not to make a sound—no tears, no noise at all. I try to become invisible.
I try to disappear. I wish Mommy would do that too. I hate it when he hurts
her.

I keep
listening again until I’m sure we’re alone. Daddy’s gone to work. Mommy will be
in bed.

Shush! I have
to be quiet. I tiptoe over to see my baby brother. He’s on the floor in the
bassinet the Salvation Army people gave us. He’s still asleep. I smile when I
see Timmy sucking his thumb. His baby skin is so soft. His hair is soft, too.
Soft and yellow, just like my hair.

He looks like
the picture of baby Jesus the nice Salvation Army lady gave me. I keep that
picture in my school bag. It reminds me of my little brother.

I love Timmy
more than anyone or anything in the whole world.

I want to
grow up and have lots and lots of babies. I’m going to marry the school
librarian, Mr. Brand. He doesn’t yell. I never say anything to him, but he
doesn’t mind if I don’t talk.

I won’t marry
anyone like my father.

Mr. Brand
smiles at me a lot. He speaks really slow and low. He knows my name. He says,
‘Thank you, Renata’ if I help him put away the library books. He also says,
‘You’re a good girl, Renata.’ When he says this, I feel all tingly and happy
inside. Mr. Brand is really, really nice. I love Mr. Brand.

“I… I
l-l-love y-y-you t-t-too,” I say to my little brother, even though he’s asleep
and can’t hear me. My whisper is a stutter. I always stutter when I speak—but
it isn’t safe to talk. It’s better to say nothing.

“Shut up!
Shut up! You have a st-st-st-stutter stupid!”

I close my
eyes to make it go away when I hear Daddy’s voice in my head.

I’m scared at
home. I’m scared at school. I’m always scared.

They tease me
in class and at the playground. If I’m very quiet and hide, no one bothers me.
I don’t have any friends, but that’s OK. Mr. Brand likes me. He smiles when I
help him.

That’s what
the other kids call me. I’m stupid and I stink and I forget how to talk when
anyone looks at me. I’m afraid of people, but I know my little brother loves me
and Mr. Brand says I’m a good girl.

The best
thing about school is my father is never there. Also, I can go to the library.

I like to
read. I read all the time. Right now I’m reading, “Harry Potter and the
Half-Blood Prince.” I wish I knew magic. Sometimes I imagine I’m Harry Potter,
even though that’s silly, because I’m a girl.

When I marry
Mr. Brand, Timmy and I will go away and live with him. I’ll have babies of my
own and we’ll live happily ever after, just like in fairy tales.

I go to
Mommy’s room. It’s dark, but I can tell she’s still in bed.

“Mommy?” I
say. I open her bedroom curtains to let in some light.

“Go away,”
she says.

I go into the
kitchen. There’s only enough powdered milk left for the baby. I make a bottle
for Timmy. I know exactly how to do it. I shake up the powder and water until
it’s just right.

I pull a
carton of corn flakes out of the cupboard and pour some into a bowl. Because
I’m so cold, I put hot water on them. I sit on the only wooden chair that isn’t
broken and start to eat.

Corn flakes
aren’t too bad without milk.

A girl at my
school, Cindy Basset, always throws away most of her lunch, so I’ll eat that
later. I’m quiet and I’m sneaky. She doesn’t know I watch her. When she throws
her lunch in the trash can, I take it out and I eat her food.

Cindy throws
tons of stuff away—half a sandwich, an apple and cookies. Everything’s all
carefully packed up.

Cindy Basset
is so lucky.

Timmy begins
to wake up. He makes a sniffing noise that sounds so cute. When I hear him
waking, I feel lucky too.

I take the
bottle in to him. When he sees me, he smiles. I get that tingly feeling again.
I’m so happy!

Timmy needs
me. Timmy loves me.

I love him so
much it hurts, but in a good way.

I pick him
up, sit on my bed with him on my lap and I feed him his bottle. This is the
best part of my day. I love to hold my little brother. I love being with him.
On weekends, I get to be with Timmy all day long.

When he
finishes his bottle, I pick him up, walk around and pat his back until he
burps. He smiles at me and his chubby hands pull my hair. He is so soft and
warm and he smells so good. He has a special baby smell only babies ever have.

I change his
diaper, but I can’t stay with him. I have to go to school or else the social
worker lady will be mad at my Mom. I take Timmy in to her because she has to
wake up.

Mommy has
pulled the curtains closed, so it’s dark again. Darkness is safe, but something
about this darkness scares me.

Something bad
is coming. I know it. I feel it. It’s coming!

I’m OK. I’m
OK. I’m OK. I’m OK… I chant inside my mind.

Mommy wants
to go back to sleep, but she can’t. I pull the curtains open again to let the
light in.

“Mommy, Timmy
is here. I have to go to school.”

Mommy makes a
kind of unhappy moaning sound, but she sits up on the bed and takes him into
her arms. When she does, she smiles down at him. She loves Timmy too.

Bang!

The front
door slams open. Mommy’s eyes go wide. We both freeze at the sound.

We can’t
move.

My heart
jumps up into my throat where it pounds, pounds, pounds! I need to get Timmy
and run. Run and hide. Quick, hide!

Why can’t I
move?

“Fucking
bitch!” he yells.

Arms out, big
and scary, Daddy comes into the room. He smells like beer and he’s so very
angry!

Daddy is like
Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter books, but he doesn’t hurt people with his
wand. Daddy uses his fists instead. He screams so loudly the sound hurts my
ears. I start to shake. His words slice into my ears like a knife stabbing, stabbing,
stabbing.

“I just lost
my fucking job! I was late because of you!”

He grabs
Mommy and drags her up to her feet. His hand is raised, he’s going to punch her
in the face, but Mommy has Timmy!

“I’m sorry,
I’m sorry, it won’t happen again!” Mommy cries out.

Daddy’s
fingers ball into a tight fist. I know this look. He’s going to hit her but
she’s holding my baby brother!

I can move
now.

I can run
away.

But I won’t
run. I’m so scared, but I don’t care what happens to me. I have to save Timmy!
I’m such a mouse. I’m such a coward—but not when it comes to my baby brother. I
do something then that I’ve never done before.

“No!” I
scream, and run toward him.

Smack!

Daddy
backhands me with his closed fist. My head feels like it’s exploding. I hear a
loud crunch—I know that sound Daddy broke my ribs and once he broke my arm, but
I think he broke something in my face this time.

I slam into
the wall. The whole world tunnels down. It goes yellowy, then greyish and
black.

My ears are
ringing, ringing, ringing.

The baby is
crying, crying, crying.

Mommy is
screaming, screaming, screaming.

I try to get
to Timmy. I have to save him, but I can’t seem to move. I see two of
everything. Two of Daddy hitting, two of Mommy being hit.

I see two
hands grab two Timmys. Two babies fly out of Mommy’s arms as my father takes my
baby brother and throws him across the room. He is a blur as he comes toward
me.

My little
brother’s tiny baby cry is long and loud. It sounds like a police siren.

THUD!

Timmy slams
against the wall a little way from me.

He isn’t
crying now.

Smack! Smack!
Smack!

Daddy keeps
hitting Mommy. Mommy is quiet now too. Is he going to kill her this time? The
thought seems to come from somewhere far away.

Is Voldemort
here? This pain is worse than any pain I’ve ever felt. This must be the
Cruciatus Curse—the dark wizard’s Torture Curse. Harry Potter screams when he
is cursed, but I can’t make a single sound.

I suddenly
realize I can inch forward if I try really hard.

I slowly drag
myself toward Timmy. He is quiet now.

His head is
wrong.

His eyes are
closed.

He looks like
he’s asleep.

Please baby
Jesus. Please let him just be asleep, I pray. I put my arms around him and
cuddle into him. Just like Timmy, I close my eyes. There is so much pain in my
face and head. So much pain in my heart.

The fear of
losing my little brother hurts most of all.

This is too
much. I can’t take it.

The pain goes
away suddenly.

Like my baby
brother, I sleep too.

I feel
nothing at all.

~~~

“Wake up,
Renata!” a male voice yells. “Wake up! You’re dreaming!”

I regain a sense
of awareness on hearing the panicked, anxious sound. I become aware of a hand
clamped firmly on my shoulder, shaking me.

When I open my
eyes, I know where I am, but I still feel the loss of my baby brother.
Oh
God! It’s as though I’ve lost Timmy all over again!

My grief is
inconsolable.

Grant looks down
at me, concern etched on his face. With sudden comprehension, I discover it's
his
hand on my shoulder. He woke me from the nightmare of my past.

I’m hysterical.
I sob so hard I can’t breathe. Hot tears fill my eyes and stream down my face.
I can barely see Grant. When he gathers me into his arms, I grab hold of him so
tightly my fingers and hands hurt.

“It’s OK, it’s
OK, it’s OK, Renata,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, beautiful, I’ve got you.”

Grant’s voice is
deep and calm, rumbling soothingly against my chest. His big, solid body firmly
presses against mine, embracing me within the safety of his arms. He’s a living
promise of comfort and sanctuary. His warm hands glide over my back, gently
patting and stroking.

It takes so long
to get my tears and my breathing under control. Grant is kind and patient. He
pats, and soothes and calms me until I regain myself.

Wait… Grant is
touching me!

The man who is
disturbed by touch, is holding me. I don’t know how he’s able to do it but he
is. There’s no tension in his arms. His body is pliable and relaxed—his
attention is on
me.