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February 10th, 2011 | Author: Antique

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Writing a book about all the abuse I incurred as a child. What do you think?
Girl, get your nasty ass out that bed.” Momma yelled as she slung my bedroom door open. Though I was wide awake and knew she was coming, her fury startled me none the less. An electric current ran down my spine as her voice boomed over me. She gripped my ankle and yanked me from my cot. I was knocked dizzy as the sound of my head hitting the floor vibrated in my ears. Momma was using her hand as a vice to hold my ankle while my body dangled in her grip. Her other hand was skillfully delivering my execution. Lash after lash, the thick brown leather belt didn’t discriminate while striking my body. My legs, arms, back and even my face were victim to her fury.Once the vice released its grip my body was almost paralyzed. I fell to the floor. Time stood still. I was in shock. I tried desperately to center my thoughts and make sense of what had just happened. My seven year old mind struggled to understand the events and the reason behind them. A cool tear crept down my face. “Sssss” I hissed as the salty droplet made contact with an open welt on my face that was left behind by the belt. “Get your ass back in the bed Red Leafy Vine you nasty heifer.” Momma growled while stomping out of my room. I crawled back onto my cot very carefully. I felt parts of my body thumping as blood rushed to the welts on my skin. It was a feeling that I’d grown used to. Very slowly and very carefully, I placed the sheets across my body. A melody of hisses continually escaped my mouth when the “brillo” touched each of my bruises. Lying down after one of Momma’s beatings took a bit of skill. I had to calculate the least painful, most comfortable position to lay in and then quickly fall asleep so that I could escape the agony of consciousness.The next morning the rising suns’ beams pried my eyelids open. The morning had come so quickly. I awoke before anyone else in the house. Momma never said I wasn’t allowed to get up before I was told but I wasn’t going to take the chance. Besides, I rather enjoyed gazing out of my oversized bedroom window to watch Mother Nature wake up. I most enjoyed the sun’s rising. Second to that was watching the Momma birds take flight as they set out for their morning ritual of hunting and gathering food for their nestlings. The cot I lay in was right next to the real bed that was in my room. Often times I would lay on my cot and stare at the real bed. The inanimate object seemed to come alive. It disliked me. I wasn’t clean enough to lay in it. “Only good little girls lay in real beds.” The bed would whisper to me. It was adorned beautifully. The headboard was ivory with gold etchings; a design suited for a princess. The dressing was a coverlet with fluffy magenta- colored roses scattered across it. The green leafy vines that crept between the roses caused the bed to look much like an enchanted garden where only royalty was allowed to dwell. Then there was my cot. There wasn’t much to say about it. My nasty “ass” as momma would say, was only allowed on the cot. The cot’s frame was a dark metal that was rusted in some spots. There was no box spring. The mattress was thin and slumped in the middle as the metal springs holding it gave in. There was a matching baby blue flat and fitted sheet covering the thin red plaid mattress. Momma didn’t speak to me much outside of my beatings and her ranting about my uselessness. It was more so the “unspoken” things that spoke into my life. Looking up at the real bed from my prison cot spoke of my worthlessness everyday and night.
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