Living With Evil Cynthia Owen (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

Horrible doubts still wriggled around in my head about how she would react. What if she called me a dirty bitch, or even hit me?

But then, how hard could she hit me? I was sure none of Mammy’s punches and slaps could hurt me as much as Daddy hurt me. I had to tell her. I was desperate for the the agony to end.

‘Mammy…’ I stuttered. ‘I have something to tell you.’ She ignored me and carried on scrubbing the carrots by the sink, which was overflowing with dirty dishes. I noticed her fingers were red raw, and a cigarette was hanging out of her mouth. She didn’t look happy, but I had to get this over with.

‘Mammy, can I tell you something?’

‘What is it now? Can’t you see I’ve enough to do? That dirty bastard of a father of yours has pissed all over the pots again. Fuckin’ filthy bastard.’

‘Mammy… I don’t like what Daddy does.’

‘What? Nor do I! Useless bastard!’

‘No, Mammy, I mean I don’t like what Daddy does to me.’

‘What? You’re talking nonsense, Cynthia. What Daddy does to you when? I don’t like what your da does most of the fuckin’ time.’

‘Mammy, I don’t like what Daddy does in bed.’ I could feel my cheeks burning, just like they had done when Mother Dorothy hauled me to the front of the class and pointed out the lice in my hair. It was so humiliating. I hoped Mammy didn’t ask me to say any more.

‘Now what are you talking about, Cynthia?’ she moaned, rolling her eyes and scrubbing faster at the carrots.

‘I don’t like it when he gets too close…when he…touches me.’

She dragged on her cigarette, and some ash fell into the sink. I watched it dissolve in the dirty dishwater, and I felt as if some of my stress and suffering had melted away too. I’d said it. I’d actually told Mammy.

She said nothing for a moment, and I looked at her face expectantly. Her green eyes were as cold as marbles. ‘Oh come on, Cynthia, it’s all in your imagination,’ she blurted out. ‘It’s just your father moving around in the bed because he’s drunk!’ She turned her back on me and went to fetch something from the far end of the kitchen.

I stumbled into the living room and slumped onto the sofa. I felt like I’d been crushed. My ray of hope had gone. It was as if I was slowly dying from the inside. Mammy wasn’t going to help me. I was all on my own, and I felt so terribly lonely.

My mind went back to that Sunday morning when she was lying in the double bed on the other side of the front room. My instincts had been right. She had been awake, and she did know what he was doing. She had deliberately turned her back on me, just like she had done at the sink just now.

My mind was churning again. Was it because what Daddy did was normal? Maybe. But even if it was normal, now she knew I didn’t like it and I wanted it to stop, why didn’t she help me?

For some reason she didn’t want to stop it. She didn’t want to help me. She didn’t even want to talk about it. I was devastated.

That night, I climbed into bed feeling more terrified than ever. There was simply no escape. Even if I ran screaming from the bed when Daddy got in, Mammy would send me back and tell me not to be such a silly bitch. I knew that now, so what could I do?

A great idea came to me as I trembled in the dark. What if I lay with my head at the opposite end of the bed? It would be harder for Daddy to reach me, and maybe he would give up and leave me alone.

I was shaking so much I could hardly shuffle down the bed. I curled into the tiniest ball possible and pressed myself against the wall, hoping maybe he wouldn’t even see me. I clung on to that thought for hours as I lay there shivering, waiting for him to come home.

The key in the lock startled me as usual, but I was sure my plan would work. It was a fine plan. Daddy would leave me alone. He might not even see me!

Moments later, I felt the mattress ripple as Daddy got under the bedclothes. A wave of cold air swept over me. I was curled up so tightly I could feel my own hot breath on my chest and fingertips, as I had my hands balled up in front of my face like a little mouse.

Something sharp dug into my leg. It was Daddy’s toenail spiking in my shin. I felt it dig in again. It wasn’t an accident. He was kicking me hard.

‘Get here now!’ he growled. I couldn’t move. I was too scared, but he was still kicking me, and there was a strange pulsating feeling in my legs.

‘Get here now!’ He sounded even scarier this time, and the fear jolted me to my knees. I crawled to the top of the bed, crying and struggling.

Daddy’s arms felt like they were all over me. He was trying to unfold me and turn me around to face him, but I didn’t want to look at him. I kept myself rigid and curled up, shaking my head and saying, ‘No, Daddy. Please, Daddy, no!’ I felt his grip on my arms loosen, and the mattress rippled again. He was out of the bed!

I panted for air. I could breathe again. I could hardly believe it. I’d got rid of him, but I didn’t dare move. Seconds later, I heard his belt buckle clink and the sound made me catch my breath again. Surely he wasn’t going to beat me? No, one thing was certain: he never beat any of us kids in our beds.

I felt the cold leather across my chest now, but he hadn’t