Weekly Writing Challenge: Ghosts of December 23rds Past

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Weekly Writing Challenge: Ghosts of December 23rds Past

A day of my past into an insignificant future. 

My past is such a struggle, its painful to remember, painful to relive. 

The day that comes to mind, is pure torture. 

When I was little, my mom wanted me and my siblings to see my dad one last time before he was sent away for years to come. The problem was someone found out. They didn’t like my moms’ last desperate resort. 

I was put in foster care with my twin and the rest of us were spread out by themselves. 

It was one night, only some sort of a 24 hour time period, but it was hell. 

I was so small, and I felt so alone. I had only my sister to comfort me and she was in a comforting mood. We sat, cuddled up together, under a table for hours, crying, until we fell asleep. We forced to eat spaghetti, of all things, for dinner and to this day I can no longer eat that saucy covered pasta. 

My mom was able to pull me out of the system, throwing out her own fears and helplessness for the court to see, a desperate housewife being evicted from her home, with no money, no job, a husband being tossed into prison for the pain he put into my family. We had nowhere to go and she had never been on her own before. (Let alone with 6 kids on her hands.) 

Her utter desperation is what released her kids from . . . ultimate daycare let’s call it.

When we got home, we were never really home. We had to move around, living with different people, never on our own. Never with daddy again. 

I saw him, a few visits to the prison visiting center but it was never satisfying. He never seemed to want to see me, he pushed me away. 

Even so, he wrote letters and drew pictures and made cards; even got a few phone calls here and there. 

One thing I remember most, is being signed up for Angel Tree. There would be a family who would call my mom during Christmas time and every kid would make a list. That family would buy the things we put on our list and say they were from daddy. 

Every year, we would get the call. 

Every year, we would wait for a delivery to out door. 

Every year, we would have the special tags, they were shaped as a tree with Angel Tree written on the top, “from daddy”.

Every year, we would open them on Christmas eve. 

Every year, disappointment rang when my daddy didn’t come home for Christmas. 

 

 

Daily Prompt- By the skin of your teeth

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Daily Prompt- By the skin of your teeth

To remember a time where I narrowly avoided a disaster is like asking me to tell you the timeline of my life. My mind is full of bad ideas and the hopelessness to follow them through. I can go from, not getting caught stealing a carton of cigarettes to not getting hit by a car because of my “cat-like reflexes.” I would have to go back to my little baby time, and the day that my sister gave in to her pain. The cops were called on my dad for harassing two young girls; they went to talk to my older sister to satisfy their suspicions, they got a hell of a lot more than they asked for too. She told them everything, every detail, all the things he did to her . . . the things he forced her to do for him. After that, he was taken to prison; that man was out of my life completely. Taking my father away was a blessing in disguise, I know in my heart, and so does my mom and older siblings, that he stuck around until me and my twin sister grew up, we would’ve been next. I would’ve been violated just as much as my beautiful sister. Would’ve been beaten on when i made even the smallest mistake, then, eventually I would be hard pressed to protect my baby sister and brother from my fathers’ wrath and lustful nature. It would’ve been a much harder life than I have now and I know that my depression would’ve been deeper than even now and I would be dead on the inside and out. 

Where it begins.

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Where it begins.

I guess this is where my story starts; the hardest part is always the beginning it seems. This man is my father, he hurt a lot of people and the woes of my life have started with only the memory of him, the memory of his touch. His touch never violated me through body but through eyes as he sat at the computer lusting through pictures saved on google. He was a man in search of something that my mother couldn’t give him. The touch began its lingering fingers through my sister’s soul, ripped her body to shreds after he bruised my mom and my brother to bits and pieces. He made my family feel worthless and helpless, small, the prey of his treacherous heart. I never knew the full extent of his sickness, he was gone by the time I counted to 4. The letters came and went, the visits stopped at 3. By the age of 7 I was alone with a mother only there to send me to school while she struggled to keep us alive. It was painful for her. And now its painful for me.