But It Wasn't By Mom~When I was 5-6 my Mother remarried a man with a daughter approx 6 yrs older than me. We moved several states away and suddenly I was left alone during the summer days with the new step sister. I had no idea what would spark her rage toward me, as I was quiet and unsure and stayed as far away from her as I could, but she started taking shots at me with my mother's hairbrush.
This was no ordinary hairbrush, though.... while she would typically hit me with the BACK of this WOODEN hairbrush, occasionally, as her frequency of beatings increased, she turned the brush over and beat me with the bristle side.... the METAL BRISTLE SIDE. They didn't flex or bend and scratched so badly~~~
Not too many months before the short-lived marriage came to an end, my cruelest beating occurred.
My Mom worked as a bartender in the bar of the resort we lived in. My step-father was in the "house" band but they often went on tour as well. Our apartment was across a huge parking lot from the bar where Mom worked. You opened the outer apartment door and immediately faced an extremely steep set of stairs covered in long green shag carpet (70's were GROOVY MAN!!!). That day my step sister started early... whatever the cause, I never knew but it kept getting stronger and harsher until I FINALLY defied her threats of worse beatings and tried desperately to escape by running to the safety of my mother at work. In my first 2 attempts I stumbled and fell down the stairs and she grabbed me by my hair and dragged me back up them turning to beat me about the head and shoulders.
However, I remember my feeling of desperation on my 3rd and final attempt when it was she who stumbled at the top of the stairs and I was able to grab hold of the doorknob and open it! Finally at least I could scream and get someone's attention maybe?! I did not stop running toward the bar although I knew she could probably run faster than me--I just knew her wrath would be much worse for getting past her so I couldn't stop! This time my cuts and scars would be visible when Mom got home.
I wish I had a happy ending where I was rescued and she was punished-- but despite my efforts she caught up to me and dragged me back into the apartment and up the stairs.... that is the last memory I have of that day. I don't remember any of what happened after she got me back inside... past those green shag stairs.
ImMyOwnWoman 41-45, F 14 Responses 3 Jul 24, 2011