[Author’s Note: As part of the #BareYourMind campaign, this is a story of Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs). Traumatic events suffered during childhood can result in long-term negative effects on mental and physical health. If you struggle with mental illness, I encourage you to share your stories as well. Let’s work together to de-stigmatize mental health in our society by giving it a human face.]
Continued from Part 3…
Not looking back, I heard my brother’s shoes slapping the pavement. I could feel him getting closer. I pushed myself, pumping my legs as fast as I could. Joey was starting to grunt and wheeze behind me. I may have been fat, but I was still healthier than his own drug-saturated body. I chanced a look over my shoulder. My brother was bent over, hands on his knees, sucking wind. I almost felt bad for him.
As I ran, I pictured my mother’s sad face when she heard about what I said to Joey. As if defending oneself was just as cruel as a random act of violence. I’d failed her, having resorted to the same spiteful weaponry that my father and brother used. It seemed that my mother’s only hope in this world was to have a harmonious family. And I, her child with the most potential to be a peacemaker, had just contributed to the ongoing discord.
I shook my head, fighting back tears, and turned my flashing feet toward a nearby park. It was a park in the loosest sense of the word: the only piece of equipment left was a dilapidated swing set, and even that had only one surviving swing; all that remained of the others were a couple dangling lengths of rusted chain. Now, the only reason to frequent the park was a thick stand of trees that overlooked a small stagnant lake.
By the time I reached the overgrow grass, I was breathing in heavy gasps. The alien chittering of cicadas welcomed me into the sanctuary of the trees. As I moved into their shade, the only other object of interest in the park caught my eye: a huge concrete pipe, about five feet in diameter. None of us kids knew where it had come from, or who had placed it there. At some point in the past, it must have been considered an acceptable piece of recreation equipment. Whatever its origin, it was as wonderfully mysterious as Stonehenge to me.
I crawled into the giant pipe, my knees scraping painfully across the rough inner surface. The inside was cool, and I flopped down on my stomach. In that shelter, which felt as secure as a bunker, I let down my guard. Far from the judging eyes of my father I let my tears flow. My sobs sounded tinny and strange as they echoed around me. Exhausted, I rolled onto my back and cried myself to sleep.
I awoke hours later in the dark. Night had brought with it the ever-present shushing of traffic from the nearby highway. The sound of the jets in their predictable pattern caught my ear, and I knew their roaring had woken me up. I realized the planes had been faithful companions to me for my entire young life, and their noise had long ago become as soothing as a lullaby. Tonight, they had made sure I didn’t sleep through dinner and incur my father’s wrath.
The heat of the day had dissipated, and with it my anger, fear, and guilt. All that was left behind was a calm determination. I crawled out of the pipe, running my hands over its coarse surface. Someone had spray-painted a skull and crossbones on the outside long ago. The skull grinned at me in the glow of a nearby street light. I smiled back, and started through the cool night air toward home.
Lights burned bright in the house, transforming the windows and open door into glowing eyes and a mouth like a jack o’ lantern. My smile got even bigger at the sight, as I felt a good ache at thoughts of October and Halloween, chill breezes and the sharp scent of wood smoke. If I had to face an army of high school bullies to get to my beloved Autumn again, I was okay with my fate.
Concluded in Part 5…
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