A Story of Survival
by
Donna Kshir and Sandra Potter
Poinsettia Publications
634 NE Main St
PO Box 1881
Simpsonville, SC 29681
Copyright 2010 Donna M. Kshir
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. For permission and rights information, contact Poinsettia Publications at info
@PoinsettiaPubs.com. Published by Poinsettia Publications at Smashwords
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is also available in paperback format at most major online retailers.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
DEDICATION
To Dreamcatchers for Abused Children
Part I - Steven
Chapter One - Introduction
Chapter Two - Wasting My Time
Chapter Three - Just Another Day
Chapter Four - Bad Memories
Chapter Five - Can’t Sleep
Chapter Six - Punished
Chapter Seven - The Plan
Chapter Eight - It’s Dark
Chapter Nine - 4th of July
Chapter Ten - Close My Eyes
Chapter Eleven - The Hospital
Chapter Twelve - I’m Afraid
Chapter Thirteen - Standing Over Me
Chapter Fourteen - Her Tactics
Chapter Fifteen - Sitting Duck
Chapter Sixteen - Whispering
Chapter Seventeen - Death Sentence
Chapter Eighteen - Forbidden
Chapter Nineteen - Our Secret
Chapter Twenty - Now or Never
Chapter Twenty-One - Opportunity
Chapter Twenty-Two - Awake
Chapter Twenty-Three - The Truth
Chapter Twenty-Four - Time
Chapter Twenty-Five - Wondering
Chapter Twenty-Six - The Return
Chapter Twenty- Seven - My Fault
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Second Attempt
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Escape
Chapter Thirty - Where Am I
Chapter Thirty- One - The Reveal
Chapter Thirty-Two - Home Sweet Home
Chapter Thirty-Three - Did You Know
Chapter Thirty-Four - What is Child Abuse
Chapter Thirty-Five - Facts
Chapter Thirty-Six - Signs of Child Abuse
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Signs of Physical Abuse
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Sexual Abuse Signs
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Family Incest
Chapter Forty - Verbal/Emotional Abuse Signs
Chapter Forty-One - Types of Neglect
Chapter Forty-Two - Shaken Baby Syndrome
Chapter Forty-Three - Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome
Chapter Forty-Four - Stages of Recovery
Chapter Forty-Five - How to Protect Yourself from Abuse
Chapter Forty-Six - Get Help Now
Steven Moyer was your typical teenager until an untimely car accident caused by a drunk driver claimed the lives of both his parents. When his immediate family refused to take him into their homes and to care for him, a naive Steven was forced into the vile foster care system.
Steven has been carted from one foster home to the next- over a dozen times in the last two years. He has had a difficult time making friends and fitting into a new family unit.
Now in his teens, Steven is abruptly placed with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Even though he is immediately made to feel welcome; once the caseworker leaves, the Joneses reveal their true colors. Steven begins to experience slight signs of child abuse, but it doesn't end there. Over time, the abuse escalates from pushing and shoving to full blown beatings.
Now, with no other choice; Steven is forced to make the hardest decision of his life - escape or continue to experience the abuse that could cost him his life.
This powerful story takes you through the daily drama of Steven's life through his own personal memoirs. Experience Steven's pain firsthand as you read through his journal entries during this horrific time in his life.
It's late and I'm freezing.
I am given this sorry excuse for a blanket and expected to keep warm.
What were they thinking?
The blanket has more holes in it than a block of Swiss cheese.
I am told to cope with my new surroundings. Who can live (let alone cope) in this situation? Even the cockroaches have moved out.
I don't know why I'm wasting my time writing to you in this stupid journal. You don't know my feelings or what I'm going through. You’re like everyone else in my life; clueless. I'm writing my deepest, darkest thoughts and you just lie there and do nothing. You never help me. This journal was a stupid idea. Who cares about you anyways?
Do I really think that you’re going to help change my life or get me out of this situation?
No!
Yet, I continue to confide in you anyways.
This journal has been nothing, but trouble for me. Do you hear me? Trouble! I should just throw you in the trash where you belong. Why are you trouble, you ask? Writing these stupid words will never set me free. It won't let me escape my past, let alone these four walls. I'm caged like a wild animal. There is no escape. No matter how much I tell you or complain, words won't get me out of here. Words won't fix what's broken. Words won't give me my life back. You may think that you’re helping me, but the truth is… you’re not helping me solve anything. You suck-just like everything else in my life.
Today was just another wonderful day...Not!
I was taken out for my first REAL meal in two years and I get back-handed across the head for putting my elbows on the table. If that wasn't enough, I spilled my soft drink. I got a hard kick to the shin under the table, followed by words of encouragement. "Boy, if you embarrass us one more time, your ass is mine." Boy, that's good parenting, huh?
I tried to eat my meal, but I am so scared of acting out of line that I cannot eat. I became sick to my stomach and asked to be excused to use the restroom. I'm only in there three minutes when a rap comes to the door and tells me to hurry the hell up or it's my ass.
Mr. Jones screams, "You’re embarrassing your foster Mother and I. Hurry up!" Can you spell "idiot?" I can…Mr. Jones.
My ass is always on the line and there's no way of escaping the foster parents from hell. I feel like I'm trapped in a bad dream and I can't wake up. I can't stop thinking, “What did I do to deserve this?”
I exited the men’s room. I was still not feeling my best, but it’s back to the table for further persecution.
I returned to the table. I sat down and picked up my napkin to wipe the sweat from my face. I looked up at my foster father, the whole time watching his lips. I saw him blurt out, "Get your ass to the car. You can't act normal. You had to ruin our evening. Now, I'm going to ruin yours!"
I slowly stood up, shaking and sweating profusely. I exited the restaurant. I made my way to the car and my foster mother followed close behind. As she walks on my heels, I can hear her gritting her teeth and mumbling under her breath. She clearly made me aware that I am knee deep in trouble when I get home. I knew from that moment on that it was going to be a long night.
We drove home in silence, but it was far from being over.
Once we arrived home, I was pushed into the washroom; my sleeping quarters. After a few swift blows to the side of the head, I was told to get ready for bed. I dropped to my knees and tried to comfort my pain. As Mr. Jones stood above me shouting out commands, I did what I was told. I stepped into the closet and pulled down the ironing board. I grabbed my crappy blanket and lie down for the night. As he exited my so-called bedroom, I tried to close my eyes and go to sleep, but the pain in my head was throbbing terribly.
I couldn't sleep and my head continued to throb. My back was killing me because the ironing board that I am forced to lie on was so hard. Another sleepless, cold night. Why me, God?
Why me?
Today is nothing more than a day filled of bad memories. Any normal, grieving child would want to stay home from school and any normal, parental figure would allow me to stay home; knowing that it is the anniversary of my parents’ deaths. But, no… not the Joneses!
Mrs. Jones actually has the nerve to tell me to get my ass up for school and not to make her come back in my “room” or she will beat my bare ass with my foster father's leather belt."
Trust me… she usually held true to her words. I have felt the wrath of his leather belt and her bare hands on more than one occasion. I did not want to suffer the consequences again today.
I dress and go to school, but even at school I am always the odd ball. I am known as the loner. I have no friends. I am laughed at and made fun of because I'm different than everyone else. I don't have the same name brand clothes and shoes that the other kids have. Truthfully, being teased at school is far better than being at home with the Joneses.
As school is dismissed, I dread that long walk home; not really the walk, but actually arriving home. I keep thinking of my parents and the social worker's words, "Steven, the Joneses are very nice people. They are very kind and patient. You are lucky to be placed with them." If only Mrs. Hartway (my social worker) knew how deceiving looks can be. These two people are a joke; however, the sad part is that I'm not laughing. I have to deal with their madness on a daily basis.
Mrs. Jones is a witch and Mr. Jones is just plain creepy. She is always hitting and slapping me and he is constantly putting his hands on me in an inappropriate manner—massaging my shoulders or running his fingers through my hair. It is totally creepy. He makes my skin crawl.
I have repeatedly complained to social services about my foster parents, only to be called a liar. They claim that I am “only trying to start trouble.” My complaints were “exaggerations” and my wounds “self-inflicted.” I knew that once Mrs. Hartway left our home that the gloves were off and I was fair game again. I would rather die than go through that again.
So today when he placed his hands on me, I screamed at the top of my lungs. Mrs. Jones came running. He backed away from me quickly as she proceeded to ask what was going on. He explained, but only after he forced me back into the washroom so that she couldn't hear my side of the story.
The washroom isn't the same bedroom that Mrs. Hartway got to see on her monthly visits. These visits are riddled with compliments and confessions of what a good boy I have been. The second my worker leaves, I'm forced back into the washroom -- the only bedroom that I have ever had here.
I can't even leave the washroom to use the bathroom. I have to urinate in an old bucket, which is the same bucket that Mrs. Jones used to scrub the kitchen floor. I messed my pants once and I paid a heavy price for it, too. If I'm caught leaving the washroom, I’m quickly chained to the pipes under the sink to assure my compliance.
How convenient!
At night, as I lie freezing on the washroom floor; all I can do is wish the wonderful men and women at social services sweet dreams as they safely sleep in their comfy beds at night - while I lie on this damn cold, cement floor.
Do you really think that your kind words are going to keep me safe or warm tonight?
Do you think the Joneses care if I live or die?
I can answer my own questions in one word: NO!
It's the wee hours in the morning and I can't sleep again. I'm hungry and cold. I want to sneak into the kitchen and get something to eat, but the last time I did that Mrs. Jones caught me. She yanked my hair until my nose pointed to the ceiling. I know that if I'm caught that it will only result in another altercation and I don't need that.
I'm so cold.
Then, the idea hits me to put my blanket into the dryer and let it get warm and toasty. This may work. I put the blanket in for about three minutes and it's nice and warm. I cover up and I'm able to go back to sleep. Just as I fall asleep, I am suddenly awakened; not by the cold, but to the sound of my stomach growling intensely.
I'm starving.
What do I do? Do I risk leaving the washroom to go to the kitchen?
No! It's too risky.
All of a sudden, I hear clump, clump, clump. "Steven, get your ass up. You got chores to do before school. This is the last time I'm calling you or I'm comin’ in."
I jump up, dress in the same old, dirty clothes that I have worn for the last three days, and run into the kitchen. I stand at attention - awaiting my orders.
“Do the dishes or NO breakfast.”
Breakfast? Leftover scraps, really. I suppose it is better than not eating at all.
I wash the dishes and then bend down to reach under the sink to get a drying towel. Mrs. Jones suddenly enters the kitchen and sees my hands out of the hot, soapy dishwater.
She screams out, "You're not doing your chores! You're just screwing around. No breakfast for you!"
I try to explain that I was just going to dry the dishes and put them away, but she has no time to listen. She is both the judge and the jury.
I break down in tears as I realize that lunchtime in school is four hours away. It's been two days since I last ate anything, and I'm starving...literally. My last meal was interrupted, and now it will be hours before I get to eat again. I'm shaking, lightheaded, and my knees are weak. I know that I need to eat something soon or it will just be a matter of time before I pass out.
What did I do to deserve this?
I rush to school hoping that the cafeteria has some saltine crackers sitting out. Maybe my teacher brought some cookies and milk in to share with the class. I arrive at both locations and there is no food anywhere. I sit down as I begin to feel more weak and shaky. As the principal walks by, he tells me to get to class. I stand up and everything starts to spin. Then, everything goes black.
I awake in the nurse’s room. I tell her that I'm hungry. She goes to the cafeteria and gets me a snack as she tells me that she will have to call my parents. Though I beg and plead with her not to make the call, she insists that she has no choice. My stomach starts to knot up, because I know that I’ll be dead meat. There will be hell to pay when I get home.
I am told to lie on the cot and rest as she calls my parents. I am still begging and pleading with her… saying it is not necessary to bother them because they are both busy at work. As I lie there, I think about how it felt so good. It was warm and soft. It is the most comfort that I have felt since I came to live with the Joneses.
I make every attempt to convince the nurse, but she calls my foster mother anyway. She arrives while I am still asleep. I am awakened by her lies. I hear her telling Mrs. Smith, the school nurse, that I have had the flu for the last few days. She says it's probably the reason that I am feeling ill today.
She continues explaining how she should have kept me home from school one more day to nurse me.
Nurse me!? What the hell?
What a lie.
Each time I have been sick, she has been nothing but rude and disrespectful. I have only heard her shout out commands and make demands. She has never nursed me back to health.
I remember puking one time. When I called out to Mrs. Jones for help, she forced me face-first into my own vomit and told me to clean it up. The look and smell made me worse, but she continued to hold my face down in my own vomit until I cleaned it up. Whom does she think she’s kidding? Certainly not me!
I collect what little belongings I have and we exit the school. My foster mother grits her teeth while telling me to get in the car.
"Wait until your father gets home! You're going to see just how funny you are," she shrieks.
I try to explain as she backhands me across the face.
My cheek stings with pain. The second blow hits my lip and splits it in two. Blood streams down my chin. I reach for the glove box to grab a napkin and the bitch slams it shut on my fingers. I am told to stay out. It is not my property. I resort to using my shirt to clean the blood from my face.
Normal kids don't know how lucky they are. Daily privileges that they take for granted are denied to me. I can't even open the damn glove box in the car for a napkin to clean my bloody face.
She shakes a fist in my face, while screaming, “You’re too old to act like this!” I have tears in my eyes as she tells me to have some respect.
Respect!?
Where's my respect?
What am I… chopped liver? Don’t I deserve to be treated with some dignity? If she wants to wear the badge of foster mother then I'll give her respect, but it needs to be returned. I don't think that she knows what respect is or what it means. I don’t believe that she really cares either way.
We arrive home and I rush to my “bedroom.” As I enter the washroom, she locks the door behind me. All I can do is think about my situation and wait. I know that when Mr. Jones gets home that my butt is in for a serious whipping. Becoming sick in school is far worse than anything else that I could have ever done. The school has never called home before; except for when they complained of me smelling bad, or that my clothes were dirty. That, too, was “my fault.”
Mrs. Jones tends to over-exaggerate everything and Mr. Jones knows it. I know that I'm in big trouble tonight. It has happened too many times to count. Every time that woman bats an eyelash, I'm in trouble. I think that she finds pleasure in my pain.
I sit patiently awaiting my fate. Maybe I can explain what happened at school and he will understand? Hey, he was a kid once, too, right? We have all been to the principal's office or the nurse’s station on one occasion or another. Maybe he will understand?
No, he won't. What am I thinking? Steven, you’re so stupid!
I know that he will be home soon and it scares me. He will not stand for me breaking the rules. In truth, I didn't break any rule. I got sick at school and passed out. I was hungry. Being hungry isn't a crime that deserves punishment, is it?
I sit and pray while I wait. Hours later, Mr. Jones enters my room and asks me about my day. I try to explain, but I am told to pull down my pants and bend over his knee. He seems very anxious to whip me. The fact that he wants to touch me brings up old memories. I try to resist; but, out of fear, I break down and did as he said. As he whips my bare buttocks, Mrs. Jones stands in the doorway with a smirk on her face. Several times, she laughs under her breath and eggs him on to whip me harder to teach me a lesson. Eventually, she even laughs aloud and asks if I had enough yet?
I am so angry with her. My anger only increases when I turn to look at her while Mr. Jones is hitting me. She is grinning with each strike. This didn't seem normal.
Now, I can’t sit down or sleep on my back tonight. My butt is too sore.
Another lonely, cold, sleepless, and painful night.
I awake to a new day - hoping to forget about the previous night. I am sore. I can barely move. Nevertheless, I am sure to show up in the kitchen at 6:30 a.m., as instructed, to start my morning chores.
Mrs. Jones immediately finds fault. Here we go again...
She curses at me. I’m called horrible, dirty names. I am told to place my hands out flat. She strikes them with a wooden soupspoon. Every time I flinch, she adds another strike. As she screams profanities, I can feel her spit splattering my face. I take a deep breath and my mind takes me to a sheltered place and allows me to temporarily forget the pain. I tune out the pain and the sound of her demanding, screeching voice.
When she is finally done striking me, she shoves me down onto the kitchen floor, and I am told to scrub the floor. I look up at her only to get a swift kick in the back. She places a bucket of hot, soapy water in front of me with a scrub brush. As an added bonus for my “misbehavior,” she adds Pine-Sol cleaner and liquid bleach.
The smell makes me nauseous. Placing my beaten, swollen hands into the water makes them feel like they are on fire. I quickly remove my hands from the bucket, close to tears. She demands that I put them back into the bucket.
“Get that damn floor cleaned, this instant!”
I resist initially, until her several kicks to my lower back convinces me to comply. I think about how it would be best just to get it over with so that I could get out of the house and go to school. I know in my heart that I can’t survive spending the whole day with her.
I put my hands back in the bucket and begin to scrub the kitchen floor. Each time I place my hands in the water, the acid-burn is more intense. Tears stream down my cheeks. Perhaps she would see my pain and have mercy?
No. Mrs. Jones stands at a distance - watching me work. My sobbing seems to harden her. As I work, she sips on her glass of Rum and Coke. Her face reveals the sick pleasure that she takes in my pain.
After I finish, I am warned to keep my mouth shut about the incident; otherwise, I will “spend the weekend locked in the basement.” Being locked in the basement means no food, no water, and no bathroom. I know to keep my mouth shut when I get to school.
At school, I endure the usual taunting. I know that I can't take school or the Joneses much longer. I sit in class and later walk home knowing that I need to make a change. I have to escape. I need a way out. I plan to run away.
Escape! Yeah, that's the answer. Hell, no one would notice that I am missing until it is time to do the chores anyways. By then, I will be long gone!
As soon as I get home, I am punished for doing a sloppy job on the kitchen floor. Mr. Jones whips me with his belt, while Mrs. Jones laughs in the distance. I hate her. She is a hateful, mean, disturbed, and selfish woman.
Truthfully, I don't even think that she cares that much about Mr. Jones. When he's at work and she's on the phone with her friends, she laughs and makes fun of him. I have even heard her call him the same terrible names that she has called me. He’s just too oblivious, or too stupid to see through her. If he knew, I bet that he would quickly change his tune with me and her both.
After I re-scrub the kitchen floor to their satisfaction, I am banished to the basement for not complying with her rules.
Just another perfect day at the Joneses.
I am scared.
I know my only chance for survival is to escape these four walls that I have come to know as home. If these walls could talk, they would say, “Run, Steven, run!”
I have to get out of here, but how?
I anxiously look around the room - looking for ideas. At this point, any idea will do. I say to myself, “Help me! Think! I have to get out of the house without the Joneses knowing. Think, Steven, think!”
Then, it hits me.
A few weeks ago, Mr. Jones broke one of the basement windows while he was practicing his golf swing. When Mrs. Jones ordered him to fix it, he placed a piece of a cardboard box over the broken glass with some duct tape.
I know that it is not fixed properly or securely. At night when I huddle up in my blanket that the Joneses gave me and I try to keep warm; I can feel a cool, swift breeze blow through that window. The air adds to how cold I have been lately.
That's it.....That's it!
I will make my escape through the broken window. When they go to bed, I will pack my belongings into my book bag. I will cover my hand in one of my old shirts and punch out the rest of the glass. I will reach my hand through the window and unlock the bolt lock that the Joneses installed to ensure that I can't get out. After I pull the bolt lock loose, I will open the window and slowly crawl through. Once I am through the window, I will make my escape and never look back.
Once I am outside, I can make my way quickly through the neighborhood. I will have an eight hour start before anyone has a chance to even notice that I am gone. They won't notice until she bellows down the stairs for me to do my morning chores; and, by then it will be too late. I will be gone! I will be free! These people will never see me again.