A survivor bravely shares her story.

  

CELL WITHOUT WINDOWS 

I am locked here inside
my cell without windows.
It is dark, very dark,
but I still want to hide.

There is nothing to see
in my cell without windows,
only myself,
so, I cover my eyes.

I am not alone
in my cell without windows.
I am here with me,
we want to die.

I have to escape from
my cell without windows.
How long will it take,
after I die?

HIS LAST ASSAULT 

I was woken by my mother. We had been in bed for about an hour. My father had not come home from work again, he would have been with his latest 'best friend' drinking whiskey. I had waited up with my mother until midnight and then we had decided to get some sleep.

My mother told me that she had heard a car pull up outside but had not heard any other sound, she was worried that her husband had got out of the car and collapsed, drunk. There were no other houses near so she knew it had to be him.

We went down to the car but couldn't see him anywhere. Finding some torches we searched all around the outside of the house, then the downstairs rooms. There was no sign of him at all, so we assumed that he'd parked the car and then gone back to his friend's house on foot.

Once again, we decided to go back to bed. I followed my mother up the stairs. As we neared the top, we were puzzled to hear an odd whimpering sound; like a tethered animal would make. We checked on my three week old baby sister, it wasn't her. It wasn't my young brother having a bad dream, there was only one room left to check and that was my 16 year old sister, Margaret's, room.

My mother stood in the doorway for a second or two, then she turned and, without a word, went into her own bedroom. I went to the doorway, my eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark, but I could hear the whimpering quite clearly. It was definitely coming from Margaret's  room. My eyes could make out Margaret sitting huddled at the top of her bed; she was clutching her knees to her chest, and she looked absolutley terrified.

At first I thought Margaret had had a nightmare, but she was sixteen now and wouldn't normally be this upset like this, so I realised this must be serious. I follwed Margaret's eyes and saw that whatever or whoever was frightening her was behind the door. Without thinking, I turned on the light and looked: it was our father.

At the time I didn't know why I attacked him, I must have known instinctively what he'd done to Margaret. I'd suffered the abuse often enough over the years.

I dragged my father out from behind the door and beat him. I suddenly had the physical strength to smash this man's head against the wall. We were in the tiny bathroom, he was crying and pleading with me to stop. I wanted to kill him. I couldn't stop myself from hitting him time and time again. I was scared that he would start beating me if I stopped, i'd witnessed the beatings he'd given my mother. I wanted my mother to come out of her room and stop it all from happening, but she never came. I thought tonight would see the end of my life and my fathers life.

Eventually, I stopped hitting him. His face was a mess, I was ashamed of myself, I was ashamed of him and I was ashamed of my mother, who was still hiding in her room. I didn't want to touch this disgusting man now, not even to hit him. I left him slumped on the floor.

Margaret

I went into Margaret's room, she was laying in her bed now. I went to the foot of the bed and asked her if she was okay, she nodded. I went back to my own bed and lay there wondering if all that had taken place had been real. Margaret lay in her bed, still frightened, she was convinced he would recover from his beating and continue where he had left off.

He had first used her for his sexual needs when she was 5 years old. It began on the night her second brother had been born. It is still very clear in her mind.

This night had been different though, she was sixteen and had breasts now. He hadn't been near her for a long time, in fact, the last time had been before her breasts had started to develop. She was determined that he wouldn't have those, like he'd had the rest of her body. She needed to keep them unspoiled, for herself, they were hers and he was not going to have them.

Margaret didn't sleep the rest of the night, but she need not have worried, because when her father did wake up he went straight downstairs and out of the house, he drove away. 

Margaret just lay in her bed, she didn't get up and tell me or our mother that her father had gone. She began to relax and finally slept. 

The following day was Sunday, and the rest of the family became aware that something terrible was happening. Our father didn't return that day and when he didn't turn up on Monday either, some of the family became anxious about him.

Our two brothers had slept through Saturday night, and didn't know about their father being found in Margaret's room or the beating I'd given him. They knew he'd come in drunk and there had been a fight, but that wasn't a rare occurrence. Their father leaving was a rare occurrence.

Our mother busied herself with her new baby and showed little emotion, except when she complained about how inconsiderate her husband was by leaving her to cope alone.

Margaret was glad her father was gone. She had wished for this so many times over the last ten years. She realised that when her father sobered up and realised himself what had happened on Saturday night, then he would find it difficult to come back to face them all, and she hoped he wouldn't. 

I, also, realised that my father would be having second thoughts about ever returning home. I thought he would commit suicide and this worried me because I didn't want him to die. He and I had always been friends despite the abuse I'd suffered from him and, selfishly, I wanted my 'friend' back. 

Our father did return home.

Six years later, he met another woman and he left for good.  

Protecting our little sister

Margaret found out that our mother had granted our father access to our six year old sister, Lyn. She panicked. She telephones me and said she was going to our mother's solicitor and would tell him why our father should not have access to Lyn. Margaret told the solicitor what our father had done to her. I told the solicitor what I'd witnessed and what he'd done to me. Our brother wrote to the solicitor and told what our father had one to him. We succeeded in having the access withdrawn, our strength coming from knowing we were protecting our little sister.

When my mother telephoned me to thank me for stopping the access I was very angry with her. If she hadn't agreed to it in the first place we wouldn't have had to go through that, traumatic, experience. I neither wanted or needed her thanks. The next morning I had my telephone number changed and went ex-directory. I didn't want to ever hear her voice again.

A mother’s Cruelty 

My mother is an expert at mental cruelty and her punishments always sadistic.

One day, we came home from school to find Margaret hanging from a nail in the wall; she was only 2 years old. I, nor my brother, William and sister, Anne, were tall enough to lower Margaret properly so we tugged at her until her dress ripped. We caught her between us as she fell. I was 8 years old, Anne 6 and William 4.

Another day we found her banging Margaret’s head against the wall, 5 year old William picked up the vacuum cleaner pipe and hit our mother across the back with it until she put Margaret down.  I have yet to remember the punishments she gave us for rescuing Margaret, just a black blank space.

She often liked to put us in wooden crates, separately, of course. We don’t know how long we ever spent inside them but it was always long enough for us to think we would never be let out again. Feeling very hungry, thirsty, scared we knew at some level that we would be let out for we knew we would be punished for ‘going to the toilet’ inside the boxes. Sometimes, I still wake in the night feeling the same feelings as I did in those crates. 

 Have a constant reminder of her cruelty; I lost the end of my right index finger and the nail, at the age of 9, when I answered her back. She made me stand in a doorway with my hands against the door posts. She slammed the door. I’ve had two operations on my finger over the years, the nail with never grow back. I was lucky to only have permanent damage to one finger. 

She used to sing when I tried to speak to her. There were two songs; they still go through my head from time to time, tormenting me. She always said I was mad and would end up in the looney bin. She’d sing ‘they’re coming to take you away, ha ha’. Singing the whole song over and over again until I could bear no more. Then she would start singing ‘the ying tong song’. That one had the worst effect on me. I was never conscious of her stopping and afterwards I would feel like I had been battered from head to foot. Occasionally, I still hear the singing. The psychologist says it will eventually fade and I probably won’t notice that it has stopped. The effect of hearing her isn’t as bad as it used to be but it is still quite disturbing. 

While our mother dealt out punishments she would be almost choking with glee, her eyes wide and shining, saliva drooling at the corner of her mouth. It seems to me that she actually enjoyed doing these things.