33 years ago this Halloween Day he told you I was not to play with any of the neighbors, any of my classmates. He told you I was not to go out trick-or-treating because it was the devils holiday.
So you defiantly walked me down the street in my ghost ‘costume’ as I grew more and more excited. Then, he approached.
I watched you fall in slow motion – the screams curdled and silenced from the depths of my soul – my eyes searched the horrified faces of bystanders, weaving their ways around take 3 of our scene.
I watched him punch, kick and spit on you – I watched blood trickle from your face and didn’t know what to do other than to cry at your pain – scream with my eyes at those walking blindly by. I didn’t know what to do other than to kneel at your side and beg him to stop, as I had many times before.
I helped you up, you grabbed my hand and we ran…
This inspired the first blog I ever started nearly six years ago, but it was the only post I’d published. Many of my abuses had a bedeviling undertone of religious morality, and it did and does feel uncomfortable to put the pain on display, but after several years I’ve decided the pain is part of who I’ve become, who everyone’s become, and nothing to feel shameful about. Thinking in those terms, it all holds more inspiration and motivation than sadness, if for no one but myself.