I love animals. We always had pets in our house; always. Both my brother and I were taught to have respect for animals; to take care of them, look after them and help them in any way that we could. I had a particular fondness for horses, as most little girls do. I don't remember my exact age at the time of this incident, but I was at least twelve. My dad bought some trailer stickers for my closet doors. Big, bright, colorful stickers of horse heads. One was a Palomino, the other, a black horse with a white blaze on it's face. He very carefully centered each one in the middle of a door. They were very pretty, and I loved them. I made it a point to thank him for them.
I was in a hardware store when I came across a rack filled with trailer stickers. There were two that stood out right away: a beautiful red fox and a raccoon that had a bright blue background. I bought them both and took them home. I very carefully applied them to my closet doors so that they were flat and straight, just as my dad had done. When I was finished, I had the fox above one horse head and the raccoon above the other, and it looked very nice. Quite some time passed. My dad had been in and out of my room several times and had seen the new stickers. He even complimented me on a job well done in regards to their spacing and application. He never gave me any indication that he had a problem with what I'd done, and I never dreamed he would have one.
I was busy cleaning my room one day. I had taken all of my knickknacks, lamps, and assorted things off of my dressers to dust and piled everything onto my bed. I had a full-sized, four poster bed. The canopy had been removed; the metal rods kept popping out of the plastic caps that were used to secure them. I was so busy with what I was doing I didn't even notice my dad come into the room. I turned to put something on my bed and there he was, standing with his arms crossed, staring at the decals on my closet doors in silence. The longer he stood there, the more uneasy I became. A small prickle of foreboding began to grow at his demeanor. I went back to what I was doing.
"You shouldn't have done that" he said quietly. I kept working. "You should never put predator over prey." I was hoping he would just drop the subject and go away, but it was not to be. "Did you hear what I said?" he snapped. "You should never put predator over prey." Dumbfounded, I stared at the decals in bewilderment. Never in my young life had I heard of a fox or a raccoon taking down a horse for food. Dad wasn't making any sense to me at all, and it was clear that he was getting angrier by the minute. He was looking at me, waiting for a response. I backed away from him until I was on the other side of my bed and pressed my back against the wall. His eyes grew shades deadlier. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Tears stung my eyes. "I don't understand..." I began. He lunged for me. Reaching all the way across the bed, he grabbed me by my long hair.
I was not a skinny girl. I screamed in agony as he dragged me by my hair across all of the stuff I had piled on my bed. I could feel my skin ripping on sharp edges, my hair ripping out of my scalp...I fell off of the bed, slamming to the floor at his feet. He savagely beat me, pounding me with his fists and kicking me, all the while screaming and rambling about predator over prey. "No Daddy!" I cried. "Stop! Please! You're hurting me!" I begged while attempting to protect my face and head from the blows. My brother and my mom fought to pull him off of me. Enraged, he wrenched himself free and came after me again. I recoiled in horror, throwing my hands up in defense.
He was grabbed and wrestled out of my bedroom and down the hallway. It took several minutes for my mom and brother to get him out into the kitchen. He was screaming and yelling, trashing the house, breaking things. I don't remember if he got in the car and left or what. I was still on the floor, curled up in a ball numb with shock, the rush of adrenaline still alleviating my pain. "Daddy" I whispered..."why Daddy"...I gingerly pushed myself onto all fours and attempted to stand, but I was trembling so violently that I had no control of my limbs. After several minutes, I finally managed to get to my feet.
I wanted to lay down on my bed, but it was covered with all of my stuff. I staggered around the room, putting everything back exactly where it belonged until I was finished. I peered into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear before tiptoeing to the bathroom. I did the same before returning to my room. I crawled onto my bed and curled up in misery. The adrenaline had begun to wear off and I was in tremendous pain. My mom came into the room, closed the door, and sat down on the bed next to me.
She wanted to know what I had done to make Dad so angry. "Nothing!" I whined. I proceeded to tell her exactly what had happened. She listened to me in silence, then left. Being a battered woman herself, I knew she wouldn't do anything about it. She never did. It was something she felt we had to endure together as a family. In those days, a man had every right to do with his family as he pleased...even if it meant beating them within an inch of their lives over nothing.
It broke my heart that my own daddy could put his hands on me in such violent and demeaning ways. I will never understand why he hurt me the way he did, but one thing is for certain; I will remember it in sordid detail for the rest of my life. My memory has been relentless and unmercifully detailed. My nightmares begin with veiled threats that explode with brutal clarity into full-blown horrors that I live through again and again. I always believed that love would set me free, but love has been as elusive as peace. I am broken, I am in agony, and I am alone...
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