my story
I came home to find my mother hovered in the corner of her bathroom, knowing instantly it would be one of those nights. The sight of her on the floor was a sight I had become used to, numb to. I tiptoed through the house as quietly as I possibly could, afraid to make a sound for fear he might hear me. Mere steps from my room and the floorboard gave way to a creak….that was it.
Any moment he would be up those stairs and on top of me for “disturbing his peace and quiet.” His angry fists flailing at me, pounding my body or any piece of me he could get those hands on. He flew through my door, eyes ablaze and full of hate. He connected with my ear first and it instantly started ringing. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. There was a burning sensation each time he landed a blow to my body. Statistics show more than six million children are victims of child abuse each year in the United States and at least four children die every day.
I never noticed how much blood smells like metal.
I can't remember when the beatings started, only that they are the first memories I have of my stepfather. The constant smell of booze and cigarettes on his breath, knowing that if I said the wrong words or made the wrong move, his anger would be taken out on me. I didn't understand then why my mother would choose to stay with a man who would hurt her, or me. I remember pleading with her daily to leave, to find a better place for us, a place we could finally breathe. Her answer was always the same though-I can’t. .
When I reached the top of the stairs that night and heard the creak, I knew that was it for me. I knew what came next was going to hurt. Maybe that's why I decided to fight back that night; why I decided that night, of all nights, I wasn't going to take anymore. Maybe it was teenage rebellion, or maybe I had just had enough. I don't remember where the knife came from, or the sound it made going in, I only remember the smell of metal.
Any moment he would be up those stairs and on top of me for “disturbing his peace and quiet.” His angry fists flailing at me, pounding my body or any piece of me he could get those hands on. He flew through my door, eyes ablaze and full of hate. He connected with my ear first and it instantly started ringing. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. There was a burning sensation each time he landed a blow to my body. Statistics show more than six million children are victims of child abuse each year in the United States and at least four children die every day.
I never noticed how much blood smells like metal.
I can't remember when the beatings started, only that they are the first memories I have of my stepfather. The constant smell of booze and cigarettes on his breath, knowing that if I said the wrong words or made the wrong move, his anger would be taken out on me. I didn't understand then why my mother would choose to stay with a man who would hurt her, or me. I remember pleading with her daily to leave, to find a better place for us, a place we could finally breathe. Her answer was always the same though-I can’t. .
When I reached the top of the stairs that night and heard the creak, I knew that was it for me. I knew what came next was going to hurt. Maybe that's why I decided to fight back that night; why I decided that night, of all nights, I wasn't going to take anymore. Maybe it was teenage rebellion, or maybe I had just had enough. I don't remember where the knife came from, or the sound it made going in, I only remember the smell of metal.
An informational approach to child abuse
|
A persuasive piece about anti-abuse ads
|
A moving profile about a victim of abuse
|