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peachetteprice · 2 months

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27 Hawthorn Court | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Chapter 4 - The Apple Falls Far

Chapter Summary:

Ruth has doubts about her previous endeavours with the investigation. Though her worries are soon dispelled after a familiar face invigorates some much-needed passion for justice.

1.8K Words

Content warning: mentions of alcohol (?)

Ruth entered the bar at no later than seven in the evening.

There was a dainty whisper of a piano and saxophone harmonising in some form of light jazz - though she was never much of a connoisseur - shrouded by tangerine and fuschia flourescent lights which somehow possessed the ability to amplify the band's smooth tones, handily concealing any discolour Ruth felt about those case files by virtue of bewitchment.

It was a dark and damp evening, all things considered. The only thing that could have salvaged her mood was a heavy drink and some menial chatter with the bartender.

So, she approached the bar, and - after waiting for some time, clearly understanding the general predicament Ruth had gotten herself into - the bartender asked with concern;

"What can I get you?"

Ruth sighed.

There was nothing she could have done except sigh. It wasn't her place to inform anyone of her own broken hubris, let alone a bartender privy to the most detrimental of secrets. Dissolving marriages, petty crime, cheating scandals; it was his day-to-day, and it was in Ruth's best interest not to become part of his orderly convoy of discussion for the next patron.

"Give me your strongest," she muttered, bottom writhing on a stool too small for her.

It was such a subtly aggravating predicament.

After some time, as the bartender rooted beneath the bar top for a drink suitable for a grown woman, he swiftly placed it before her.

Ruth stared at it for a moment before saying;

"I said your strongest, George." She sighed. Because George was playing 'barkeep', and she was his sole customer, though he wasn't doing a very good job at it. "You can do better than orange juice."

And he likely could.

It was then, that, only a few moments later - after a rummage through the cabinet on his hands and knees (which was really a wicker basket full of snacks and cartons of juice) - the bartender produced apple juice, this time, placing it before Ruth with a proud smile

"That's more like it," she hissed with adoration, stabbing the straw through the flimsy sheath of aluminium foil, "did you have a good day at school?"

"Yeah." His eyes wavered around the bar, and Ruth watched them ardently as he spoke. "But Molly stole my brachiosaurus."

"Why did she steal your brachiosaurus?"

"I don't know." Muttered George, and he went straight back to wiping stains along the bar top with a heavy-machinery-themed rag where there were none.

So, there was silence. And Ruth let it hang.

Perhaps she was thinking of how her own day went, uneventful and uninspired as she crawled through the streets of Greater Manchester on roads too choked with traffic and suffocated by people too idiotic for their own aspiring ideals. It was a day of rampant teenagers stealing their parent's cars and running them dry around the estates, middle-aged alcoholics starting public brawls in the car parks of Asda and Tesco - a national issue - and faux calls from elderly ladies complaining about pieces of litter discarded in their front gardens.

"How did you feel when she stole your brachiosaurus?" Ruth was palming over the text on the rear of the carton, now, reading line by line. No added sugar, no added colouring, naturally sourced ingredients.

"I felt sad."

Sad. Huh.

Ruth knew a little bit about feeling sad. Dull, she would have called it, not wanting to give anybody the impression she was streaming tears in the shower on a dark night or onto her pillowcase before she fell asleep. Dull was a feeling she felt often, and in small waves, though sometimes big - but nothing more than a wailing rumble because that was a different feeling entirely - and it was one she knew rather well, too. It wasn't her favourite emotion, per se, but it might have been her most default one

It was intruiging, it truly was - George's predicament, that was - and she wished to further the conversation, probing

"Did ya feel anything else?"

George pondered for a moment, eyelashes fluttering against the sprig of curls in front of his forehead. He'd need a trim soon. "Maybe a little bit angry." He whispered, almost as if it was a secret he shouldn't tell.

"Angry. Because it was precious to you? Your brachiosaurus."

George thought, napping a carton of apple juice for himself, and - although it was almost seven-thirty and he wasn't allowed sugar before bedtime - Ruth thought he might have needed it and let it slide. "Yeah. And it was mine."

"It was yours." She affirmed, sucking the last dribbles from the bottom of the carton.

"Molly was being mean." He grumbled, flicking the curl of hair from his own forehead. He had the most beautiful set of locks, did George, and he was the spitting image of his father when he was younger, too. Bright, gleaming blue eyes and sweet bulbous cheeks that crinkled whenever he smiled.

George was the complete antithesis of Ruth. She had dark, rather frazzled-looking brown hair from too much styling in her younger years - much more monotone and less saturated than George's - and matching brown eyes, though if the lighting was generous, they almost shone with flecks of gold.

"Did'ya shout at her to give it back?" Ruth pondered, smiling a little as she spoke.

"Daddy said you shouldn't shout. He said that if you ask politely, they'll give it back."

Hm. Daddy. Chris, he was called. A bastard of a man.

"And did she?" Ruth brushed the hair from his eyes, ensuring it wouldn't irritate his lashes anymore.

George simply nodded, intent on drinking his before expelling his thoughts.

Yes, he explained. She did give it back because she was just being a little bit mean, but not loads mean. Otherwise, she wouldn't have given it back. If Molly was being loads mean - and George was really dragging out the vowels in 'loads' - he would have called on the teacher to intervene, of course, because that's how dynamic in a reception classroom prevailed.

"Why d'you think Molly stole your brachiosaurus?" She repeated, barely remembering she'd asked it earlier.

George gulped down the last droplets of juice, blinking blankly, before answering;

"Maybe she was lonely."

Maybe she was lonely.

What drivel.

There was a full glass of wine, now - to the rim, in fact - within Ruth's palm. The case files were on her lap, including her typed notes at her hip. Truth be told, there wasn't much to say about it. The affinity she felt to that little boy, plagued eyes boring through her skull, was crippling. The suspect's disposition, moreover, equally so, just as were the troubling words spoken by Price in the booth of the McDonald's in Sale.

"Lonely..." She sighed, finger travelling the circumference of the glass.

Perhaps she was lonely, too. Perhaps she needed a drink elsewhere, somewhere a little more crowded, a little more stuffed with people who could talk her ears off - whether they were a part of her conversation or not.

Yes, that was it.

She needed a drink.

And so, by nine, she had adorned her newest pair of black heels - ones with thick wedged soles and velvet trim - with a smart top with jeans. She wasn't one for princess dresses or overt makeup, nor did she wish to see any of her colleagues (or God-forbidding, any of her previous convicts) in an outfit that showed more than its provocation whenever she bent at the waist.

By ten, she was sitting in the pub with a vodka and coke in hand - though, it was more at her fingertips as they lazily drawled over the side of glass, smearing the condensation along - eyes transfixed on the bartender as he shifted from one side of the bar to the other with a smile that could only be described as 'over-compensating'.

It took another few minutes of silence before anyone approached her. She might have accepted the invitation to conversation, had she not recognised the stranger beside her who did, unfortunately, try.

"I didn't take ya for a vodka-and-coke drinkin' woman."

That voice. Deep, gruff, heavy.

John Price.

"I don't wanna talk." Spat Ruth.

Clean, cut, and straight to the point. The truth was, she hadn't come to the pub for chatter with a man like him. His words squirmed through her mind like the fall-out from a bad ear infection, and she despised another set of his words compounding the agony.

"Thought I'd thank ya." His lips smacked in the plenary of an awkward moment. "For bein' so professional and giving the case up, that is."

The case. The case files. They were still in her home. On her piano stand, where she'd also placed her unfinished glass of wine that was probably brewing with a layer of dust, now. And here was John Price, right beside her, shoulders occupying the air made for two. Maybe he knew. Maybe he knew she had taken the case files (or at least taken copies of them, at least), and he was there to confront her about it with every inch of his brooding six-foot stature.

"S'that it?" Questioned Ruth.

"Sure." He nodded, flexing his chest with a gruff groan. "Wanted a bit of conversation, that's all. One investigator to another."

"Sorry." She huffed, fingertips turning wrinkled from the condensation on the outside of her glass. She still hadn't touched it, not in five minutes. Not since John sat down beside her. "Guess m'not in the mood tonight."

"Fair enough." He sniffed, palm running along the wood grain of the bar top. "I'll leave you be, then."

The thought was swift to occur - alarmingly so, even - as John stepped from the bar stool, his head still firmly aligned with hers on the vertical. And the thought was, in no fewer words than some:

"What's gonna happen with the case?"

It made John come to a standstill. In the few seconds following, he paused, pondered, and pivoted himself back towards her. His shoes were already pointing in her direction, that, they both could see, but he had since adjusted the tilt of his shoulders so that his eyes could more easily glide over her face. Ruth looked back at him, pupils bloated, a worried knot niggling her brow.

Neither knew what the other was thinking.

And neither, for a rather long time, said anything.

Until John, being the bigger - albeit only - man, grumbled;

"It'll get sorted, Wyatt."

And, after that very sentence, Ruth could only think of one thing. It plagued her every thought, caused an even larger kink to dig into her brow, and sent another queue of thoughts to sit pending as the current wasted away behind her eye sockets. And the thought was, of all possible thoughts;

If she had stolen his brachiosaurus, it was a bloody massive one.

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#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #captain john price #captain jonathan price #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #call of duty fanfiction #callofduty #simon riley #ghost fanfiction #cod #ghost cod

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saddock-haddock · 2 years

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Im gonna talk about greif and trauma. Because I need to, and I feel like its good to know the signs of abuse. To preface, i'm not a trained professional, just another survivor. Everyone's experience is different, but there are always themes in common. I'm doing this so i can actually look at me. And reckon with that. So Yeah.

This is not a trauma dump- but a trauma story, real as they come and just about as fun. So buckle up chucklefucks and get on the RollerToaster

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Its just hit me like a truck what my life was like as a kid. Im in my early 20's(and f'ckin pretty with it) and its only now that im starting to get some memories about my life before.

I grew up in an abusive household where the only way you survive is to block out whats happening and just keep going.

My abuser was my Mother. And i was her golden boy- quiet, obediant, servile and utterly under her control.

The shoes i wore were cheap, Asda George ugly cheap- and like any kid i liked to play-so they would regularly get holes in them. She wore sandals around the house which easily cost £50+. All the clothes i had were handme-downs, after all I was just a kid who supposedly would keep growing. Nothing fit.

I went to school where the majority of the student populace come from a middle class background. I'm on the dragging frail fraying thread of the coattails of that class heirachy. Not poor enough to be working class-go one generation back and shits fucked, go two and you can blame the English. My Dad's family are dogsbodies of the extended-extended family heirachy. Shits tougher in the years after the 2008 financial crash, but we're still nowhere near the red. Mother Detested bought me a school jumper for the secondary school uniform in a size which was way too big- it reached my knees. She said i would grow into it. In the four years at that school i never did. She got her hair done at a salon. She decided what haircut i and my siblings got. Cheap and shit. If you've ever been called "Freshie" you know.

So on top of being a dark skinned kid in a rich kid school, i looked fucking stupid. At one point I tore chunks of my hair out. Im a fast healer so my scalp didn't bleed. But thats not normal for an 11 year old. I never had a choice in what clothes i had. We had the fucking means by which to afford it 10 times over-but no. I was only afforded small change or pocket money- maybe £2 or £3 rarely, most of the money I had came from birthdays or christmases, given to me by the extended family. And if i ever wanted to spend that money I'd have to go through one of the my parents, which always meant my Mother. So no agency for me on that front either.

No real identity to be had at home. No music she didnt like. No birthdays or gatherings we could go to without her say so. No food she didnt want in the house, no shows she didnt want to watch. She'd picked the subjects of my oldest sibling for their A-levels. I was spared that. She wanted us all to go away from our hometown, to go elsewhere to live once we'd finished higher education.

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This may seem like a reasonable thing to want for your children so they too can be successful. What her real aim was however was to get us away from Dad. This woman was toxic like the elephants foot in Chernobyl.

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Unless it was for bragging rights she wouldn't let anyone have a hobby. She took me swimming-and just when i was getting good-im talking potentially club then county then who knows, we stopped. I loved to dive, to go to the deepest part of the pool-all 5 foot of me at the time- leaping into the air, getting perpendicular to the water and cutting through it like a knife. The thrill from the speed and the bubbles swisshing past as i touched the bottom tiles with my hands before kicking back off and surging to the surface. Stopped. I was robbed of a thing that i loved.

Same happened again when i was showing potential in Karate. We stopped. I put my all into the flexibility training. I had no belts to me but was putting in greater effort- which the trainers recognised- than boys 5 years older and 4 belts my senior. The trainers were homophobic. We could have found another organisation easily. But as soon as the opportunity came to deny us, our wings were clipped.

We suddenly wouldn't have the money. Its what enrages me most of all. I missed out on my childhood because of the ego of my Mother. We were to be good- hers to show and tell to others, but never to outdo her. She'd drink so much she'd get migraines. Then it was up to us to do the chores. Dad was working and similary abused and docile. My Dad's friends told him stuff wasn't right. But no one tried to get us out, no one attempted to intervene. None of the extended family (which is also deeply fucked) could see anything wrong. If you talked to me or my siblings in the street we would be the politest teenagers you'd ever come across. Never demanding, acquiescing, saying fucking please and fucking thankyou, always unassuming, never in fucking trouble. Meek as fucking mice.

The irony of her being a teacher and counselor/therapist cuts me to my core. Who would be a better abuser than someone who breaks down other people's trauma for a living. She manipulated the shit out of her children, turned us against each other, taught us to fear our own father- a man who had consistantly stood on the right side of history and has as much violence in him as the average capybara. It was; "Wait till your Dad hears about this," "Please don't make me tell your father" and so on. Our Dad's name became a tool of discipline and fear in the house, framed to make us fear his wrath, which Mother dearest would stoke bit by bit. We were afraid to be in the same room as him, let alone have to go on an outing with him. And all the while my Dad didn't know why, he'd come home and find his children unwilling or reluctant to greet him, encouraged and cajoled to do so by my Mother if we hesitated. She knew how to play this game and she was Machiavellian in her execution.

She and my brother, the second oldest of the four of us would have the most fireworks. He'd do something, such as breathing, not to her liking and she in turn would bite his head off. If there's one thing that my mother, may her soul never find rest, gave her children, it's that we are stubborn feckers. So, he'd be in the right, stand up for himself, get shouted down and sent to his room. He'd be used as an example to the rest of us, we criticise our mother, we move out of line, and she'll bring that vindictive lashing fury down on her own children.

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If at this point you're thinking evil stepmother, spot on, unfortunately we're still related by blood. She abused but she was enabled by my Dad.

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Boy, oh boy, generational trauma, particularly among immigrant families is one hell of a thing. She was abused, she lost out, why should anyone else get anything.

What wrankled her most is that we were smarter than her. She's got an Oxford degree, she's very academically accomplished. But she didn't have what Dad had, that way with people. Dad's got a mind like a weapon, he taught us in his way, all the while oblivious to the poison Mother dearest was telling about him when he wasn't around. She isolated us from anything approaching a social life. We had no trusted people on the street we lived on- just an civil relation with the neighbours, who had a kid younger than me going to the same schools. She made no effort for any of her children to meet friends. Which could have cost her a life.

As an eight year old i thought about killing myself. I was so alone. I'd planned to climb onto the roof above my bedroom, jump from by the chimney stack to the street below. I'd thought about if i'd just break my legs from that height or crack my skull(again) and bleed out. I wondered what i'd hear on the way down, would my clothes rustle as i fell, like a sail in the wind? What would my bones sound like when they snap? I wondered at the time who would go to my funeral- it was only the thought of the greif of my family that stopped me. I often thought and planned hurting myself to garner something from people. Pity, Sympathy, Care, it didnt matter. I wet the bed well passed the age that i should have, and yet no one picked up on it. -It wasn't intentional

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DING DING DING- Unless you've a health condition or believe the toilet will eat you, this; "I wet the bed well passed the age that i should have," Is a surefire sign shit ain't right.

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Coming home from secondary school i'd often be welcomed to the house with tirades from my mother towards my father after she'd come home from teaching, berating him for his laziness and agrandising herself as a great mentor. Dad'd been screwed by the people he was working with. My mother encouraged us to have a go at him for being useless around the house (which he wasn't) and how he needed to get a job (which he was making every effort to do) at the few family gatherings (almost always my Dad's side) we were allowed to go to.

I escaped in the fantasy books i read, so the public library was a safer place.

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I've gained a love for libraries which will never die and one day hope to be an author who can provide that escape to others if nothing else.

Get ready for a bumpy ride!

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But then came a day when shit would start rolling. I'd come home again from school. Mother was standing at the table, wineglass full, Dad seated at the table, head down. She was talking about how well she'd dealt with a problem, how she'd taught the class and generally how to she was positively saint-like. All the while there were barbs cast in my Dad's direction, remarks we all knew found their target. Dad just sat there, across from me. Didn't say a fucking thing, didn't so much as look up.

Knowing all that I know now, being mature and stable and overall a cool segsy hot guy man boy, If I could go back in time and make my (at the time) 5 foot 2 scrawny ass hit that vile excuse for a parent I would. But I'm proud of what I did next.

I got my mug of milk, I had my malted milk biscuits, sat down at the table, and asked Dad how his day was. From the corner of my eye, I had broken my Mother's crowing. And the look of shock in my Dad's eyes said it all. The answer was prefunctory, but that's not what mattered. It's that it was asked. My Mother resumed her crowing after the exchange, but it was like i'd popped her ballooning ego. I hadn't and didn't ask her about hers. We'd all get to know, whether we liked it or not.

One thing about keeping people controlled and manipulated is you have to be constant in it and also ensure that the abused never find common ground. On several different occasions all four of us children had seperately talked to Dad about something that had happened or been said. We'd been brushed off then, it was just an overeaction on our Mother's part. I'd stood up for myself on occassions, as had my siblings. But we'd always come out the loser. My mother would win those arguments. She worked three jobs(she didn't have to work that many) and made sure there was food on the table. Money wasn't an issue- but she made it the issue. With her fancy IT gear and her quality clothes. She was the one in charge, she was the reason we were ever so lucky to have such a nice place to live and have such an easy time of things. We should be grateful cause she didn't have as much at my age, the racism she dealt with was so much worse than the shit we had to deal with.

Anyway

Time goes by.

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I have exact dates somewhere, but honestly, the story's what counts

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Then we *cleaned the shed*, an activity organised at the behest and coordinated by Mummy dearest which coincidentally involved most of my Dad's old stuff- important stuff, from his time at University and work thereafter. Important and rare leaflets and pamflets which show a side of the eighties we're not taught. There was water damage on some of the boxes and a hornets nest in the back could provide justicification for the *cleaning*. Dad was away working that day, he had no say in the matter, he had no clue what was happening. My Mother decided what was kept and what was chucked, my brother was savy enough to squirrell away a few things when she wasn't watching. What amounted to a significant proportion of my Dad's life ended up in black bags headed for recycling or the landfill. We loaded it in the back of the car as ordered, and off we went to the Tip. We made several trips. My mother gleeful and satisfied in the execution of her plan. Just like that, Dad had only a fraction of the life he'd led at the house he lived.

The loss of your past when you're dead is inevitable, we fade from the consciousness of those who come after as time marches onward. But to have it destroyed whilst your still alive? The evidence that the here and now of you was present in the there and then. It's a crime- one that should be up there with felling an anciet tree or killing a whale. These belongings were something he wanted to show all of us and any children we had. About what he'd done. About who he was.

We were children, rewarded for our effort with the friendly attentions of our mother for assisting her in her erasure. Its like a spider donning the skin of its prey to appease the webbed in distress. Sacarine and smothering in its intensity. We'd done hard labour, shifting boxes, sifting and sorting, for maybe four hours. We'd earnt it

When my Dad came home he was greeted at the door, my Mother was always the first one there, always the first to inform him of the goings on, always there to cover her tracks before any of us could get a word in edgeways.

I've forgotten what her voice sounded like (As I rightly should) but i remember what she said; "Look what the children did." Proud as a fucking peacock. I'm not sure Dad was computing at the time the scale of loss. Just peicing everything together. We all were so chuffed, shed was clean, tangible and satisfying work done. When I hugged him in greeting I couldn't understand what was wrong. We'd been told it was fine what was happening.

Its only the next day we knew. We'd been gathered in the room by Dad, he looked like he hadn't slept or eaten. My Mother was there. He talked about all the stuff that was lost. From each of us he got answers to the question he asked. It came to light who was to blame, and my Mother stood there, eyes like flint and face blank. But there was satisfaction in her poise. A smugness which only a child can discern from their parent. Its the only time i've seen my Dad break something in anger. He grabbed Her Laptop from the table and smashed it against the wall yelling; "That was my life." Me and the youngest were ushered upstairs by the older pair of us children.

I could hear the sounds of shouting, muffled through the floor. I could feel the volume. Couldn't discern anything.

Things were different afterwards. In the days and weeks that came things were strained and civil. Never more than that. Dad bought my Mother a new Laptop as recompense. Not to appease.

Then of course things got worse. My Mother became more cruel.

How is that possible you ask?

She wanted no part of family gatherings- which were a part time haven for us kids where we could taste some degree of freedom. Yes, I know, from one broken home to another different in texture and better kept broken home, but hey, a house where we get fed well is a better house than the one we lived in. So Dad would have to take us or we'd be stuck at home. My Mother really had an inferiority and god complex all at the same time, which was indiscriminate as to where it extended and amounted in a whole new flavour of isolation. We got nothing from her, if she gained something we were left with the scraps of it. If we wanted to do something, we'd need to ask Dad.

Dad was sleeping downstairs on the fold out sofa-bed. He'd been having back problems and wasn't getting much sleep. His feet were in a bad way. And he was still working. The oldest sibling had gotten out to Uni, far away, yet still the claws of my Mother seeked to control from afar, calling and arranging and financing selectively, and Dad was the one who was ensuring that things were alright for the oldest, driving there and back.

Things were a'changing tumblerina's. On the long drives tooing and froing the oldest and Dad were talking, my brother sometime was there to help with moving stuff. And things were being learnt about what life was like when Mother dearest had the children to her self. They didn't share much, but the mask was slowly being peeled off, revealing the monster beneath.

Dad got treated like a taxi driver (his words when we've talked about it) by my Mother the few times we went on holiday during the begining of my teenage years. Simply the means by which to transport us all. We went on miserable trips to shitty places, all booked on the cheap with nothing much for the kids to do, and no real intention of it being a time of rest and relaxation. We we're there because thats how our Mother wanted it, we we're there so my Mother could keep control and feel powerful.

The straw that broke the camels back was a trip overseas. We had no warning of it, we were told that we we're going; me, the youngest and my brother. Dad wasn't invited. I didn't want to go. I refused. The youngest joined me in this. We were adamant. She raised her voice, which brought my Dad upstairs. He took our side. "They don't want to go, so don't make them."

Then the mask slipped and Dad saw her. She yelled with such vitriole and said such cruel things about me and the youngest, how she did not care and that this is what was going to happen. I was 13 years old at the time, I yelled back, but she upped the ante, and said shit i can't remember but clearly crossed the line. I could see it in my Dad's face. I ran into my room and didn't let anyone in.

It was later that night that Dad told me that She was taking the youngest on the trip, that I should go with them just so they were ok, that my brother was going too- for the same reason. He said the youngest wanted to go. Years down the line I now know that my Mother cornered her 11 year old child and cowed them into submission till they said yes. I went. I don't have happy memories of that place. I know now it was my Mother exercising her power over us. Showing that Dad could'nt do shit. It was a waste of money. But by now it should be clear that this was never about money. It was about control.

She got what she wanted thereafter. Drained the collective funds of the family setting up a business which Middle Class White Suburbun Mothers usually do. We were dragged along to craft fairs and had to set shit up. My Mother was shit at it, didn't get much demand, couldn't manufacture for shit and for all her exploitation of her children and spouse, couldn't make it work. She foisted the shit she made on relatives and family friends, the few that still visited. She drained my Dad's public pension. Her money sat nice and cushy.

Her side of the family is every bit as bad as her and worse. Competitive, Colourist, and Liberal (i'm not talking left wing, no these are wealthy middle of the roaders who think woke-I fuckin hate this word- is when you let people of colour date your kids). There's the intergenerational abuse and trauma, the patriachal and archaic familial authorities with the eldest uncles, there's the histories of sexual assualt. Just a fucking shit show. My mother is the darkest of her sisters, and the biggest in body type of them. So that's another facet of shittery which is introduced into this cacophony of cuntfuckery. (I go by Hannah Gatsby's Definition of the word Cunt). That's not to say all of them are monsters, im sure there are really kind people there, but like panning for gold, theres a whole lot of mud to sift through.

Anyway, the reason why this is important is we get a once in several years visit from one of the sisters of my Mother- yes they would be my aunt, but I've disowned the lot of them cause fuck 'em- who pulls up with her kids and her spouse in a fancy car and all the mannerisms of a Victorian Lady visiting a rival. She can put on an even better show of the kindly aunt than my Mother can, it's like all the child slave picked Nestle chocolate in the world can come from that woman when she opens her mouth. After they leave there is no end of things we did wrong and also my Mother wants a new car.

So she gets a new car (barely used), exactly how she wants it. The money comes out of the shared account with my Dad. I nor my siblings have nice things. Any gifts or toys come from Christmas time and come via Dad's extended family. The same with any new clothes. I ran away into my books every chance I could get. When I wasn't reading I was catching up on all the Internet from 5 years ago on a shitty little phone. It was the only way I could escape into the outside world, have something to talk about, or even have a vague notion of what was going on. My eyesight deteriorated rapidly. Anything further than about 50 cm away loses focus now, At 20 metres only the bigger things like cars and trees are visible. I can tell what smudge is a squirrel, what streak in the sky is a bird.

I wonder now if I would have lost so much vision if I grew up in a different household. Would I be in prime physical form- having followed my passions and been supported from the begining?

I and my siblings get by the best we can, we do what she wants, and that's the end of that of it till next time. I don't talk about the aches and pains I have, how my feet and bones hurt, how I have really only been functioning breathing through one nostril. At school i don't eat well, what gets packed up either is nasty or what i could manage in the morning beforehand.

Gorged on power my Mother made her final move to get Dad out of the house for good. My Mother asked for a divorce. She'd had enough, she was cocksure when she said- no demanded it, and she would be keeping the kids with her at the house. She was so secure in that, that we were so firmly in her grasp. Dad had explained how he would be living away on his own a couple of days earlier, that we could visit whenever. So she asked for a divorce, and Dad aquiesced, asking "what would it look like?" I think she'd expected a fight at the time, and was stumped as how to proceed. It makes me smile a little now when I look back on it. She'd achieved her victory, now what?

Dad started listing her demands on his Laptop, and the older pair of my siblings sneaked us upstairs. And this is where shit was about to go topsee turvy on the master manipulator. The two eldest of the children walked us through their thoughts about what was happening. Outlining the consequences of living with either parent. We took it to vote, who wanted to stay with Satan, and who wanted to live with Dad- someone none of us knew too well.

We chose Dad, and together we went back downstairs to deliver the verdict.

Few people get the chance to see the view they are held in by their abuser, the perspective from which they deemed it entirely in their purvue to do as they wished and abuse their victims. I guess I'm just lucky.

I don't remember who said it, but we made the announcement to our parents, that we want to live with our Dad. The look of shock on his face, the man was dumbfounded, bless his old shiny head. The words that were said next will likely stay with me till the day I die.

My Mother said the following;

"I'm not going to pay maintenance."

I think my Dad got a true measure of her that day. Maintenance. Like a fucking gas boiler. Maintenance. Her own FUCKING CHILDREN. We weren't people in her eyes. We were things. That constantly required attention and nourishment. Well, if the camels back was broken before, its body's been reduced to ash now. The mendacity. The Fucking Gall. To be unable or unwilling to recognise the humanity of a child. The person they will grow into. She got teary eyed after that, tried to make herself the victim for abandoning her. Fuck her. And all she stands for.

Given how we weren't going to be living with her, she saw no reason to keep the house, it was in both my parents names, so the amount from the selling was to be split equally. The house needed some repairs and refurbishing, so we could get the best price we could, an investment which would pay dividends in the long run.

But because my Dad suggested it, and my Mother is a vindictive spiteful, putrid, hospitilisation worthy case of evil, she said no. We'd do it ourselves. Save money that way.

It was never about the money. It was always about power. I can say now that I hate wallpapering.

The house was sold. We moved out before our Mother did, taking the majority of the things with us. She had cash in the bank to buy shit. We've rented ever since. The houses haven't always been great and Landlords of course can be bastards. One of the houses we stayed in had something that had died in the walls. Some instinctual part told me. that cloying sickly sweet aroma of a rotting corpse, it filled the entire house. But we're somewhere better now.

My mother would for two years try to visit us, on birthdays and celebratory occasions- always playing the cheated parent, the weeping mother who wished to see her children who'd been stolen away. She never got through the door. We'd (me and my siblings) meet her there and tell her to go away- civily. The youngest told her to stop the act once, and she did. Its freaky shit watching someone who was bawling their eyes out a minute ago suddenly stop the crying, stand up straight and look you in the eye, the semblance of hurt gone, only the hunger remaining.

Our Dad had told us we need to be careful how we act, cause if its seen that we're becoming delinquent, or misbehaving, well then, legally my Mother would have grounds by which to take us back. We had to wait until the youngest was 18 years old, no longer a child in the eyes of the law before we could truly be free. Those were the longest 5 years of my life. We had to let her know where we lived. She moved a couple of streets away. She let us know that should we ever wish to visit she was nearby.

We'd be looking constantly to the door on Birthdays and National Holidays, seeing the car of the make my Mother drove on the road, ducking back onto the pavement. Seeing a head of grey hair of a certain cut would make me walk in the opposite direction. She sent texts everyday wishing us well, always the same message, the same saccharin loving bullshit. It took threat of legal action to force her to cease seeking to interact with us.

My grades kept slipping during this time. I barely passed my A-levels, and had no one to speak to. Dad and us 4 children had a long way to go. It's taken 7 years to reconcile most of the significant stuff thats happened to me, to the family, sorting out the relationships I have with my siblings and Dad.

Im living on my own now at University 100 miles from my family. Ive never had so much freedom. And its only now that the little things are creeping back. I played with lego and Hotwheels as a little kid- but that stopped when i was 8. Most of the food i ate gave me some kind of food poisoning or bad digestion -my Mother couldn't cook for shit, but we had to eat it. My limbs are proportioned for someone taller than me, so i know i didnt eat enough.

I had a cello teacher who was racist and probably never was sober- who i was terrified of. They hated that i didnt practise but never cared why. No room to practice in my room and Mother had her migraines, on top of chores and homework. None of my teachers looked out for me, only a special needs assistant who i learnt died of cancer a couple of years after i left secondary school, and if i had a choice i would never go to any of those schools again. Every form of discrimination was present there. And my problem was I called people out on their shit. I was bullied by my siblings and at school up until sixth form. And my Mother suceeded- as much as i hate them for it and want to kill them violently with my bare hands- i have nothing to go back to in my hometown. Its why i hate the holidays.

15 years of my life, almost 3/4 of my entire existence i survived under her rule. It fucks with me when I look in the mirror and I see some of her features in my face.

Never had anyone to confide in. One of the scars of the past is i don't tell my siblings or my dad more than i have to. But I feel that can change now. In writing this ive relived parts of it and rediscovered others. I can probably count the good times on one hand. I have no childhood friends. Only people who knew me. I struggle to make friends and maintain friendships. Relationships are still alien to me. I've my Mother to thank for that.

But I'm healing now. I've made friends for the first time- real friends (im taking things steady, I think I love them platonically, which is really fucking funny, cause we're a really hot trio), I've had one night stands, I'm no longer afraid to kiss who i like, men, women, anyone in between- about who'll judge me for my looks or what will my family think. I'm here for me now. I survived my Mother, I'm begining to thrive, I'm starting to be funny, give compliments, smile. And I'm putting what I want first. I also have main protagonist hair which is sick as fuuuuuuuuuuck-Think OG cowboy BeBop

I wrote this for me, to tell my story here first, before I tell it for real, to somebody else. I want others to understand that not every story of abuse is such a tragic story. Sometimes the victims win. I've disowned my Mother- I refer to them as my biological mother now, I've only used 'my Mother' here so it's an easier read. I probably won't talk about this again, but there's still a few things i need to story(verb) out of myself. My main message is this:

You need time away from the place where you're hurt to even begin to feel the true extent of it. And that its ok to feel angry. The main thing is that you can heal, you just need time. And in writing this i realise how much I love my Dad. When I next visit im gonna give him the biggest hug I can, and he'll have no clue why.

You'll know tho :)

#surviving trauma #self healing #toxic parents #fuck abusers #surviver #real story #surviving narcissism #narcissism

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