Here is the story I am trying to write. My writing buddies say its no good but someone here will like it
They say the mind can only think one thought at a time. Streams of my blood cover my face, color my long brown hair and stain the already soiled mattress where I lay but I am sitting on our baby grand piano. It fills a quarter of the room. The other three quarters of the living room is packed with men and women caught up in the gale created by my fathers long finger .pounding on those ivory keys that and his voice booming out the words to, 'Won't You Come Home Bill Bailey'
My voice abandons me. Tears fill my eyes, my thoughts rage, I hear myself telling them to stop this assault but they will not translate to words.. . Finally one word escapes my lips, “Why?” Now sobs begin to flow endlessly as the third man mounts me, I can speak now and I plead for this to stop.
My fathers eyes adore me as I occupy my place in his life, wrapped around his finger, drawing the attention and approval of his piers. Adorning the corner of his prized Grand Piano posed for him, I might be a vase filled exotic flowers or some expensive object capturing the attention and eliciting awe and accolades from everyone in the room. That is except for one.
They allow me to put on my jeans and sit me in a chair. They all take part in cleaning the bloody mess they made of me. After several hours and ice packs the understanding come, I stand without emotion and walk to the door across the street and enter my pediatricians office. My bloody hair matted and tangled catches Dr Kruger's attention. First I am an object adorning my fathers piano. Then I am an object fulfilling my usefulness to those men. Now I am a object to stitch, medicate and send home with my mother where I have always been the object of her disapproval.
Whether it is because I'm expressing no emotion or because in the late 60's nice people, decent people just don't talk about sex uhh.. I mean rape, I'm not sure but there are no attempts to gain further insight regarding my wounds and nothing lives inside of me with any desire to share my day
All eyes fixed on me in my little four year old mind all thoughts are of me. This is not entirely untrue another set of eyes fixed on me as I bedeck the room and all of her thoughts are of me. Whenever she looks at me I see it and I see it now, she objects to me. Her place is on the corner of that piano and in the apple of his eye.
My mother comes to fetch me right away from Dr Krugers office. All involved see a caring mother collecting what is left of her daughter. She didn't ask. My face must have been saying something but again my thoughts would not translate into words. She knew. Then we are home and in her Munchhausen way she puts me to bed and goes about her business.
I don't understand what the difference is I've been sleeping since the \
It would be years later when I uncover the truth about sleeping or unconsciousness
I had something similar to walking pneumonia but I would call it walking emotional coma the affect of it is while I appear to be walking talking even laughing never crying though I am vacant. Something that is an element in you that you have access to is missing in me and it got lost that sorrowful day.