This short piece was written for my creative class.
The story is true.
Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
What if I could hit the rewind button and with the power of my pen rewrite my life? Not all of it, only from the moment it profoundly changed, the moment I was murdered.
I remember that little girl, riding high on that John Deer Tractor with her Shirley Temple hair carefully pulled back into pig tails and those big brown eyes glistening as she proudly takes her place on her grandpa’s lap.
What a charmed life I lived as that little girl.
I was five when she died, taking everything pure and innocent with her, instantly and forever changing me. I was left with an insatiable thirst for her. Her spirit of freedom had run boundlessly through those corn fields as she rode with her grandpa. Soon he would become the only man in her life that she would ever trust again.
Hector had become my new stepfather; he was the one who had killed her. I knew Hector's secret, but I had buried it with her. Grandpa hoped that having the surgery would make him well again so he could take me away from Hector. Looking into my eyes, grandpa no longer recognized the girl that was looking back at him, cradling my face he makes me a promise that he’d be back for me.
I refused to visit him in the hospital. I was in denial and in my child’s mind I believed if I didn’t see him in the hospital than he wasn’t really sick. Expectantly awaiting grandpa’s return; I knew he’d be coming for me soon.
A sickening grin came over Hector's face as he took noticeable pleasure in telling me that grandpa had died.
“Liar,” I cried out. “He wouldn’t leave me; he promised.”
Calling him a liar again, my legs gave way underneath me. My mind could not conceive it. In a state of disbelief, utterly inconsolable, I’m kept in a drug induced state throughout my grandpa’s funeral.
This secret war raged on, as Hector continued to destroy me. I found my voice of truth three years later at the age of nine and pointed my accusing finger at him. I raised my hands in triumph confident my life was about to change, and it did, only not in the way I had imagined. My mother stayed with him, I could not fathom why,-security, perhaps? His fist became his new weapon against me, only he cleverly targeted my mother first. My guilt called me to him, taking her place. Becoming her shield in a strange way soothed me, accepting that his fist was far better than his trembling hands on me.
Finally, I set out to start a new life, only to face a new battle. For twenty years depression tried to take what was left. Wrecking havoc in my marriage, relationships, and careers, its darkness relentlessly loomed over me. Broken and tired, I waned and in my weakness, I found strength as I fell prostrate to Jesus, surrendering all to him.
As this story draws out of me, a miracle of healing unravels before me. I discover I have the power to resurrect the little girl inside. I am her breath; I am her heartbeat.
I wield the power of my pen and with great strength from within me, I write, “Forgiven” across Hector's name, abolishing depression. With that one powerful gesture, I bring the little girl inside back to life. Closing my eyes, I gently draw her out, assuring her that she is safe.
Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
What if I could hit the rewind button and with the power of my pen rewrite my life? Not all of it, only from the moment it profoundly changed, the moment I was murdered.
I remember that little girl, riding high on that John Deer Tractor with her Shirley Temple hair carefully pulled back into pig tails and those big brown eyes glistening as she proudly takes her place on her grandpa’s lap.
What a charmed life I lived as that little girl.
I was five when she died, taking everything pure and innocent with her, instantly and forever changing me. I was left with an insatiable thirst for her. Her spirit of freedom had run boundlessly through those corn fields as she rode with her grandpa. Soon he would become the only man in her life that she would ever trust again.
Hector had become my new stepfather; he was the one who had killed her. I knew Hector's secret, but I had buried it with her. Grandpa hoped that having the surgery would make him well again so he could take me away from Hector. Looking into my eyes, grandpa no longer recognized the girl that was looking back at him, cradling my face he makes me a promise that he’d be back for me.
I refused to visit him in the hospital. I was in denial and in my child’s mind I believed if I didn’t see him in the hospital than he wasn’t really sick. Expectantly awaiting grandpa’s return; I knew he’d be coming for me soon.
A sickening grin came over Hector's face as he took noticeable pleasure in telling me that grandpa had died.
“Liar,” I cried out. “He wouldn’t leave me; he promised.”
Calling him a liar again, my legs gave way underneath me. My mind could not conceive it. In a state of disbelief, utterly inconsolable, I’m kept in a drug induced state throughout my grandpa’s funeral.
This secret war raged on, as Hector continued to destroy me. I found my voice of truth three years later at the age of nine and pointed my accusing finger at him. I raised my hands in triumph confident my life was about to change, and it did, only not in the way I had imagined. My mother stayed with him, I could not fathom why,-security, perhaps? His fist became his new weapon against me, only he cleverly targeted my mother first. My guilt called me to him, taking her place. Becoming her shield in a strange way soothed me, accepting that his fist was far better than his trembling hands on me.
Finally, I set out to start a new life, only to face a new battle. For twenty years depression tried to take what was left. Wrecking havoc in my marriage, relationships, and careers, its darkness relentlessly loomed over me. Broken and tired, I waned and in my weakness, I found strength as I fell prostrate to Jesus, surrendering all to him.
As this story draws out of me, a miracle of healing unravels before me. I discover I have the power to resurrect the little girl inside. I am her breath; I am her heartbeat.
I wield the power of my pen and with great strength from within me, I write, “Forgiven” across Hector's name, abolishing depression. With that one powerful gesture, I bring the little girl inside back to life. Closing my eyes, I gently draw her out, assuring her that she is safe.
1 comment:
As I said before, in the writing class, my heart goes out to you and the suffering you had gone through as a child. I very nearly suffered the same experience, but that the kid's Mother pulled him off me before he could do more than pin me. It shows great strength of character to be able to forgive someone who has wronged you so thoroughly, but God tells us to forgive. He wants us to be the "bigger person", and to be at peace. Holding grudges hurt no-one but ourselves. That is why Satan encourages hate and anger and being stubborn. I'm very proud of you Theresa, and may God bless your life with gifts abundantly. And nothing, I hear, beats having grandchildren (except for having children). And you've been blessed with both. And you have your writing. My little girl inside hopes to follow your example, and come back alive with the knowledge that she has forgiven and need live in fear no longer. God bless, and I am truly happy we remain connected. *hugs*
Post a Comment