My earliest memory is of my sister. At the time she would have been seven years and myself four years old. I can remember standing in my parents home, it’s hallway outside their bedroom door. I was standing silently watching the horror taking place inside.
My sister was crying, my mother and father yelling at her. My mom is holding up a dust pan to my sister’s face, she keeps yelling at her to “eat it!” My father is saying some of the same, with every word instilling the fear of god into her. It was poo. My sister was being forced to eat her own poo.
I can remember weird details about this closet, and my parents room. I remember the bed being in front of a large window covered with dark curtains – that were always closed to keep others from seeing what was happening. I remember looking inside the closet and seeing my moms pair of mint green high heals on the floor next to a pee stain my sister had left from being in there too long. I can remember the sounds…the musky smell.
My sister spent most of her time in my parents bedroom closet. This had been her punishment for past couple of years. My mom and dad said it was because she was a bad girl, that she was a thief and and liar. If she shit herself while being in the closet – she would be forced to eat it. How dare she shit in my parents closet… this is what they would say to her. I can remember watching this, thinking how gross this was, how awful this was…my poor sister. Seeing my sister being held by the back of her head by our mother and my father shoving a dustpan full of my sisters own poo was my first memory. I can remember that no matter what – she was always in trouble. For some reason they just hated her so much.
My mom and dad beat her frequently, and for no reason that I can remember witnessing. When I was older I would be told that she was a “fucking liar, and a thief…and Dad just can’t stand either!”
When she was allowed to sleep in a bed, instead of my parents closet – she usually shared a bed with me. We only had one bed in our shared room. And, in my parents eyes – she didn’t really have a room. She didn’t deserve one. Each morning she would wake up immediately she would stand in the corner with her nose facing the wall, as directed by my father prior. He didn’t even have to tell her any more.
But most times they would just take her out of the closet and start a beating. My dad always made beatings like an interrogation. He would ask us over and over why we did what we did wrong, and he would never accept the answer – even if it was the truth. Sometimes, we genuinely did NOT know what we did wrong.
He would smack us, punch us or flick us in the neck with his fingers hard and ask us to try again. This was a game, a very painful and exhausting game to play with my father. I can remember coming up with lies just to be able to come up with something in the hopes that my father would accept the story and give my body a break. I would hope for him to find some humor or empathy in my efforts and imagination and that he might somehow magically change his mind this time. Not likely. And, never for my sister.
Each time we give an answer he would look us with this horrible, terrifying, angry look and he would say something like “how can you be so fucking dumb, you fucking little lying bitch!” He would then slap us, sucker punch – or my favorite, flick us in the neck – hard.
Once he went over this, if he hadn’t gotten too mad and started the beating already, my father would then send us to our rooms to get ready for the beating. He would tell us to undress and lay facing down on the bed and wait for him. I can remember waiting for hours sometimes, only once can I remember my dad changing his mind after the long wait. All the while, from the beginning to end my ass is shaking uncontrollably with fear and anxiety. I always wondered “how bad will be it be this time?”