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Authors: Oliver T Spedding

Tags: #armed robbery, #physical child abuse, #psychological child abuse, #sexual child abuse, #love versus indifference

Broken (8 page)

BOOK: Broken
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I went to the kitchen and made
myself a bowl of cereal with milk and sugar. I sat down at the
table, suddenly aware of how hungry I was. I finished the meal and
drank a glass of cold milk. I walked out of the front door and went
to the neighbouring house. I knocked on the door. Mister Gray
opened it and looked down at me enquiringly.


Please call
the police.” I said. “My parents have killed
themselves.”

 

CHAPTER 3


Your
Honour.” my legal representative, James Foster, said. “I
interrupted my client, Cindy Bedford’s evidence at the point that I
did because both my learned colleague, Mister Paul Greave and I,
feel that it’s very important that the evidence of both Cindy
Bedford and Garth Gilmore be interwoven as this will provide a
helpful picture of how their backgrounds have affected their
collective behaviour. I would therefore like to recall Miss Bedford
to the witness stand.”

Judge Warren Bester nodded.

I walked calmly to the witness
stand.


Cindy.”
James Foster said with an encouraging smile. “I’d like you to
continue from where you left off earlier. As you said, your father
returned to fulltime work and there was no longer any opportunity
for him to trouble you sexually. What were your feelings
then?”


Although I
felt extremely relieved, I never felt safe.” I replied. “I was
constantly trying to avoid any situation that might leave me and my
father alone in the house and this was very distressing. I also had
an awful longing to be recognised as someone real; someone
worthwhile.”

I hesitated, not sure how to
express myself without appearing to be silly.


Don’t be
afraid, Cindy.” James Foster said. “You have been extremely brave
so far and I can assure you that everyone in this court today is
here to support you.”

I took a deep breath and began
to speak.

***

As a young
girl of eleven who had never been given any advice or guidance
about sexual matters I struggled to understand what my father had
done to me. I felt that I was some kind of object to be used,
mistreated and looked upon with indifference. I found it impossible
to believe that what had happened between me and my father was
normal but I had no means of confirming this.
I couldn’t speak to anyone about it, firstly because I
feared that my father would hurt me very badly if I did, and
secondly because I knew that nobody would believe me. My
helplessness angered me even though I knew that this was unfair. My
anger was also tinged with hatred for all the people who failed to
help me.

Both
consciously and subconsciously I blocked out all the memories of
what
had happened between me and my
father in our lounge. I did this because I didn’t understand what
was happening and the easiest way to deal with it was to eliminate
the memories. But even then it was too late. My whole life had
changed. I constantly felt helpless and angry. I lost my enthusiasm
for life. I began to avoid any kind of physical contact with
others. Life hardly felt worth living. I endured, even though I
didn’t know why.

Although my
father no longer had the opportunity to sexually abuse me, the
physical and psychological abuse continued. It was as if he wanted
to punish me for no longer being able to have his way with me
sexually. He beat me for the slightest infringement of his rules,
many of which, I believe, he made up simply so that he could
assault me or belittle me. No matter how hard I tried to please him
and my mother they always managed to find some reason to demean
me.
I desperately wanted some kind of
positive recognition that I was someone of value.

In my final year at primary
school I decided that I had to talk to my mother. I had to clarify
my position in the family. I desperately wanted to be part of it. I
felt that if I told her about my loneliness, if I told her about my
wanting to be recognised as a human being with feelings and if I
told her that I wanted to be loved and to give love in return she
would understand and our relationship would change.

One evening when I had finished
my homework and my father was drinking at his pub, I went into the
lounge where my mother was sitting in her favourite chair knitting
and listening to the radio. I sat down in the chair opposite her,
avoiding the couch and its horrible memories.


Mom.” I
said. “I want to talk to you about something that’s very important
to me."

My mother glanced at me and then
continued with her knitting.


Can’t it
wait until tomorrow?” she asked. “I’ve had a really busy day and
I’m tired.”


No, mom.” I
said, determined to say what I desperately had to. “I have to talk
to you now.”

My mother shrugged her shoulders
and continued to knit.


Mom.” I
said, even though I already knew that I wouldn’t get the response
that I so wanted. “I so want us to be a family and for me to be a
part of it. I want so much for us to recognise each other as real
people with feelings. Do you think that’s possible?”


I don’t
understand.” my mother said, still concentrating on her knitting.
“We are a family.”


We’re not a
real family, mom.” I said. “When have we ever done anything
together, apart from living in this house? When have we ever
laughed and joked together? When have we ever sat down together and
just talked about anything and everything? When has anyone in this
house ever complimented another for what they are or for something
that they’ve done?”


I still
don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” my mother
said.


Well, when I
look at my friends and their families, they all seem to recognise
each other as part of their families, they talk and laugh together
and when they talk about their parents they do so with pride and
love in their voices.”

I waited for
my mother to respond but she remained silent. I felt depressed as I
realised that what I was saying to her meant nothing. She really
didn’t want to understand.


I know that
I shouldn’t compare us to other families.” I said. “But I can’t
help it. Our family is so different. I don’t know what happens in
other families in the privacy of their homes but I can’t believe
that their lives are filled with anger, criticism and violence like
ours are.”


Exactly.” my
mother said. “You don’t know what happens in their houses so you
have no right to compare us to them.”


Okay, I’ll
accept that.” I said. “But why can’t we be friendlier towards each
other? Why can’t we laugh and joke together? Why can’t we recognise
each other as human beings with feelings?”


I think that
you’d better speak to your father because I don’t know what you’re
talking about.” my mother said. “We are a family and that’s all
there is to it. Now please, Cindy. I’m tired and I don’t want to
discuss something that's just in your imagination.”

I sat and stared at my mother. I
could see that what I had said to her had meant something, but at
the same time I could see that she was determined not to react. It
was almost as if she was too scared to say something that would
confirm what I had said. But why? What could she be so scared
of?

I stood up, touched my mother on
her shoulder, and left the room.

My mother
must have told my father about the one-sided conversation that
I
’d had with her. He came home late the
following evening, having spent several hours in the pub drinking
with his friends. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my
homework and my mother stood at the stove preparing our evening
meal. My father stood in the doorway and glared at me.


How dare you
compare us to the families of your friends?” he shouted at me. “If
there’s any unhappiness in this family it’s the result of your bad
behaviour. You’re constantly defying your mother and me and making
life as difficult as possible for us!”

I stared at the open textbook on
the table in front of me. I knew that if I so much as looked at my
father he would hit me.


Your mother
and I have broken our backs to give you the things that you have.”
my father said. “And you still have the audacity to complain!
You’re nothing but an ungrateful little bitch!”

I knew that
for my own good I shouldn't say anything in reply but I wasn’t
prepared to accept the unjust accusations that my father was
levelling at me. I looked up at him defiantly.


What about
love?” I asked. “Have you and mom ever given me any
love?”


Love!” my
father exclaimed. “What the hell do you know about love? All the
things that we’ve given you during your miserable life have been
given to you because of our love for you!”


Those are
all material things.” I said. “What about words of encouragement?
What about compliments for my attempts to better myself? Have you
ever taken the time to help me with the things I’m trying to learn
and do? No. All you do is shout at me, belittle me and beat me
whenever I do anything that’s not to your liking. Have you or mom
ever sat down with me and talked about the things that other
families talk about? Have we ever sat together laughing and joking
and having fun?”

I watched my father go red in
the face.


You arrogant
little bitch!” he shouted. “The only times I’ve beaten you are the
times when you’ve disobeyed me or your mother or done something
stupid and inconsiderate! You’re a vindictive little
bitch!”


Perhaps if
you’d taken the trouble to explain to me what and why I was doing
the wrong thing there wouldn’t have been the need to beat me.” I
said.


That’s
enough!” my father shouted. “Get out of the kitchen! Go to your
room! You’ll get no supper tonight, you ungrateful little
slut!”

I got up from the table and
walked towards the doorway. As I passed my father he raised his
right hand and punched me hard on the side of my head. I lost my
balance and fell sideways, hitting the side of my forehead against
the door jamb and opening a small cut. I felt the warm blood
trickle down the side of my face. I staggered to the bathroom,
grabbed my facecloth and tried to staunch the flow of blood.


What’s for
supper tonight, Alice?” I heard my father say.

After I’d
stopped the bleeding, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and went
to my bedroom.

I climbed
into my bed and lay staring up at the ceiling. I could hear the
clinking of knives and forks on plates as my parents ate their
supper. My head ached and I felt terribly depressed. My attempt to
get closer to my parents, to become part of the family had failed
miserably, and once again my mother had let me down. Could she
really have so little feeling for me or was she too scared of my
father to back me up? The relationship between me and my parents
was now even worse than it had ever been. I felt so helpless. I so
wanted to be part of my family but I had no idea of how to achieve
this. I had tried to contribute to the happiness of the family but
each time I had been rejected. Deep within me though, I knew that
what I was trying to achieve was impossible. The realisation that
my parents were incapable of expressing love, hit me like a
physical blow. My hatred and anger towards myself and the world
erupted within me and I began to cry quietly.

For two days
following my father
’s assault on me I was
forbidden to go to school so that the swelling on the side of my
face where he’d punched me could subside. The cut on my temple was
too small to attract attention but my mother insisted that I cover
it with a small piece of plaster.

When I got
back to school the news of the deaths of Garth Gilmore’s parents
had just become known and, as very little was known about what had
actually happened, speculation was rife and gossip abounded. There
were even suggestions that Garth had killed his parents. Although I
had never even seen Mister and Misses Gilmore I felt a strange
empathy for the big quiet boy who appeared to have no close friends
and who now also had no family.

The funeral
was held on a rainy Tuesday morning and several children at the
school applied to attend. I hesitated to apply but eventually my
conscience prevailed and I left the school with the other children
to go to the church service. I was quite shocked though when,
instead of going to the church
, the other
pupils said that they were going to the movies.


Come with
us, Cindy.” they said. “Surely you’re not really going to go the
funeral service.”


Yes, I am.”
I replied. “I think it’s the right thing to do.”


You’re
crazy.” one girl said. “Are you in love with Garth? You must be if
you’d rather go to the funeral service than to the
movies!”


No, I’m not
in love with Garth.” I said emphatically. “He’s just lost his
parents and I believe that he needs our support. He needs to see
his friends supporting him.”


We’re not
really his friends.” another girl said. “He never talks to us. He’s
so aloof. I get the impression that he thinks he’s too good for
us.”

Giggling and chattering the
girls hurried away.

BOOK: Broken
11.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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