FanStory.com - The Cryby Lea Tonin1

I feel somewhat emotionless, and a bit flat this morning. I suppose it's to be expected when one writes of a difficult event.

How do I know though? This is my first time. I don't have any hindsight on the issue but, it seems reasonable to me.

Our lives, of course, we know our own lives and the course that it's taken and where we're at now.

I didn't want to move. I couldn't move. Every muscle in my body screamed, my skin stung. Every part of my back and legs is tender. You wouldn't even have to breathe on it without it hurting.

I was lying on my stomach, the only possible position I could lay. I edged myself closer to the side of the bed using my arms and pushed myself up and onto my feet. Stiffly walking, I headed to the washroom.

I dreaded having to sit down on the toilet so I opted to hover over it. It was doomed to failure. Washing myself as best I could I wondered if I dared go upstairs.

It was a weekend so my stepfather was there or out with my mother. I heard nothing so I peeked out the window. Mother's Rambler was there but my stepfather's Celica was gone.

I may have a chance to eat so up the stairs I went and walked quietly, each step brought a new world of pain.

"I have to get help." But who?" I thought.

No family member could I turn to. The one aunt who gave me clothes and the only one to respond to my letter, said she knows but, cannot involve herself or her immediate family, that it has nothing to do with her. That was the general attitude of the day with all my family or they'll say they didn't know. My grandmother ran the family with an iron fist. Her way or the highway. She was the all-seeing the all-knowing eye of the family. Nothing went down that she didn't know about.

"So who then?"

Looking around upstairs, I could see no one about. The bedroom door was open. Nobody was in there, I was alone.

I took another peek out the window to make sure they hadn't miraculously shown up.

I quickly grabbed what I could. An apple, a piece of bologna on a slice of bread and a glass of milk.

As I exited the kitchen, I could see a note on the dining room table, written with my mother's hand which said,

"Make yourself something to eat. After that, you've got chores to do. I want that kitchen clean before I get home. Start the laundry and the carpet needs vacuuming. We'll be home by midnight. You've been ill, 9 o'clock bedtime for you."

Whenever she started handing out orders to clean, I would think to myself.

"What do you do all day long? Shop, play cards, go bowling, socialize, lie and smoke your brains out?"

I sat down at the dining room table since there was no point hiding it.

I started to fill up the sink with water and dishes. Looking at my hands to examine the cuts from grass pulling, I saw they had healed enough for the cuts to scab over and most of the pain had subsided. But the pain in my backside was excruciating. I needed something to help with the pain if I was expected to clean. I went into the bathroom and found myself some aspirin in the cabinet, I took a couple. Then it struck me. In Army Cadets I had a friend, more like an acquaintance. We at least talk to each other friendly enough?

Maybe I can approach her, Maybe she knows something I don't. Maybe she can keep secret. If I'm grasping at straws I'll know it soon enough. I have to try. If not, then I'll have to bolt.

That man is gonna end my life one of these times.

I don't know if I'll make it to eighteen under this roof. I knew, in no uncertain terms, that I wouldn't.

I know now my threshold is low. I will explode again. I could not allow the momentary relief of yelling, in exchange for my life. It just doesn't balance.

Fight or flight one way or the other. Those are the two choices.

I choose to fight...

I'm laying back on my bed, reading what I've just written not only to check for the usual edits but to know that I've conveyed the feeling of the time, and talked about the actions and the why of it. I want to make sure that everything I say is truthful, not inflated, and above board and that it may carry a lesson for all who wish to read.

I never expected that my words would impact so many. I'm gratified to have been surprised by the goodness and support of people out there when I gave up.

If I am emotionally flat today, there is one emotion that still sticks out regularly twenty-four-seven...gratitude.

My heart lifts my soul rises and with every page I write it frees my mind a little bit more.

I didn't want to move. I couldn't move. Every muscle in my body screamed, my skin stung. Every part of my back and legs is tender. You wouldn't even have to breathe on it without it hurting.

I was lying on my stomach, the only possible position I could lay. I edged myself closer to the side of the bed using my arms and pushed myself up and onto my feet. Stiffly walking, I headed to the washroom.

I dreaded having to sit down on the toilet so I opted to hover over it. It was doomed to failure. Washing myself as best I could I wondered if I dared go upstairs.

It was a weekend so my stepfather was there or out with my mother. I heard nothing so I peeked out the window. Mother's Rambler was there but my stepfather's Celica was gone.

I may have a chance to eat so up the stairs I went and walked quietly, each step brought a new world of pain.

"I have to get help." But who?" I thought.

"So who then?"

Looking around upstairs, I could see no one about. The bedroom door was open. Nobody was in there, I was alone.

I took another peek out the window to make sure they hadn't miraculously shown up.

I quickly grabbed what I could. An apple, a piece of bologna on a slice of bread and a glass of milk.

As I exited the kitchen, I could see a note on the dining room table, written with my mother's hand which said,

"Make yourself something to eat. After that, you've got chores to do. I want that kitchen clean before I get home. Start the laundry and the carpet needs vacuuming. We'll be home by midnight. You've been ill, 9 o'clock bedtime for you."

Whenever she started handing out orders to clean, I would think to myself.

"What do you do all day long? Shop, play cards, go bowling, socialize, lie and smoke your brains out?"

I sat down at the dining room table since there was no point hiding it.

Maybe I can approach her, Maybe she knows something I don't. Maybe she can keep secret. If I'm grasping at straws I'll know it soon enough. I have to try. If not, then I'll have to bolt.

That man is gonna end my life one of these times.

*I don't know if I'll make it to eighteen under this roof. I knew, in no uncertain terms, that I wouldn't.***

I know now my threshold is low. I will explode again. I could not allow the momentary relief of yelling, in exchange for my life. It just doesn't balance.

Fight or flight one way or the other. Those are the two choices.

I choose to fight...