Everything I Used to be is Coming Back to Torture Me
The Past Still Haunts Us
“His name is Ron. I guess by all criteria he’s my father, but I never really viewed him as a father to me. Instead, I view him as the man who provided the materials to create me and not much more,” Clover began, sitting calmly on the closed toilet seat. Brian sat against the closed bathroom door, his crossed arms resting on his bent knees. Clover’s gaze never wavered from his own.
“For as long as I can remember, I rarely saw my father. He’d go to work before I woke up and wouldn’t get home until after I went to bed, usually sometime after midnight. I was lucky if I saw him for just a few minutes a week.
“My mother’s name was Sarah. She was a huge part of my life. She juggled playing with me, cleaning the house, making the food, and working. I loved my mother.
“Oftentimes, I would fall asleep before Ron returned home. Sometimes I was still awake, just lying in bed, when he got back. Only then would I hear their arguments. I don’t remember what they fought about or the words that they exchanged, but I do remember that the arguments would always end with a sharp cry from my mother. I didn’t understand why my mother made that noise until I was older.
“I remember constantly finding bruises on Sarah. When I asked, she would make up some lie, usually that she had tripped or something simple like that, and I always believed her. Maybe it was better that I believed her and that I didn’t know the truth.
“The worst nights were when Ron got home early. I didn’t realize how bad they were until I got older, but I always felt the mood in the house change when Ron got home before I went to bed. On those nights, Sarah would tell me that we were going to play hide-and-go-seek. She would promise to count to a thousand while I went and hid. I found some of the best hiding spots, or at least my child mind thought that they were clever. Eventually Sarah would come find me, usually after Ron had left again or gone to bed.”
At this point, Clover paused, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Brian waited patiently. He wondered how long it had been since Clover had told this story to another breathing person.
“My mother would always be crying when she found me,” Clover continued, her voice shaky. Her eyes found Brian’s once again. As she continued, her voice regained its strength. “She’d put me to bed straight afterwards. Only when I got older did I realize that those nights were the nights when my mother got abused the worse by Ron.
“One night when I was nine, Sarah and I were in the kitchen cleaning up after we ate supper. I heard my father’s truck pull into the driveway. I turned to Sarah, opening my mouth to tell her that I’d been thinking of some new hiding places and she’d never find me this time, but I stopped cold when I saw the look on her face. She looked terrified. There was no color in her face; her eyes looked like a frightened animal’s when it’s caught in a trap from which there is no escape. She grabbed my arm and shoved me into the pantry, hastily shutting the door just as Ron walked in.
“But the door was open a crack, and I could look through that crack and see what was going on. Now I wish that the door had been closed as tight as it could be so I couldn’t see what happened. At the time, I didn’t know what was going on, and so I was curious.
“Ron started yelling at Sarah, calling her terrible names that I would’ve gotten spanked for even trying to say. He shoved her back; she hit the refrigerator hard enough to knock off several of the magnets. Most of the magnets were holding up pictures I’d drawn in school; they fluttered to the linoleum floor. I remember hoping that Ron wouldn’t step on them with his dirty boots: I’d worked hard on them and I didn’t want them to be ruined.
“Ron went to one of the drawers in the kitchen and pulled out a long knife Sarah used to cut up hard-shelled fruit like watermelon and cantaloupe,” Clover continued. She stopped again, bringing her hands to her face and rubbing her eyes hard with her palms. When she brought her hands away, Brian saw several tears slip from her eyes. Clover didn’t seem to notice.
“He went at my mother with the knife. He pulled it back above his head like a pitcher winding up a fastball. His first attack sunk into her shoulder. I screamed, but my mother’s own shriek drowned me out so Ron didn’t hear. He yanked it out, and his body kind of turned toward the pantry. I saw his face. I’ll never forget it; it’s etched into my memory like acid. It was the face of a psychopath, a man without morals, a complete monster. It shows up in my nightmares still.
“Blood splattered on the floor and across my drawings. He stabbed my mother again; she never stopped screaming. I retreated back into the corner of the pantry, covering my ears as best I could, trying to drown out my mother’s screams and Ron’s curses.
“After an eternity, there was silence. I didn’t come out of the pantry until the police arrived. One of the policemen carried me out of the kitchen, telling me to put my face into his shoulder so I couldn’t see. I didn’t want to see. Later, I was told that Ron had been fired previously that day; he’d gone home, told Sarah about it, and then gone out to drink.
“At his trial, I was the main witness. The only witness, really. There were others, showing how angry he was, that he was an alcoholic prone to violence, but my testimony was the one that put him in prison for life.”
Silence hung in the air once Clover finished. Brian just stared at her, a little shocked. How could such a young girl witness such an atrocity as the murder of her own mother and yet grow up to be a reasonably happy, completely sane young woman?
“How could you ever function again after that?” Brian asked once he found his voice.
“I’m not sure,” Clover answered. “I’ve asked myself that same thing. But I think some people move on from terrible occurrences better than other people. Two people can witness the exact same thing: one will grieve for a time and then decide that there’s nothing to do but move on (never forget, of course, but move on just the same); the other will let the event consume them.”
“And you’re one of the ones who never forget but move on nonetheless,” Brian said. Clover nodded.
“As you can see, I clearly haven’t moved on as well as I thought I did,” Clover said, glancing at the bucket in the sink. “Since I’ve started taking the drugs and alcohol, I’ve realized I’m so much happier when I forget that it ever happened. Maybe there’s a third type of person, somewhere in the middle. They appear to move on, they think they move on, but secretly the horrific event still consumes them.
“Can you please wait until after the tour to tell everyone about my addiction?” Clover asked. “I don’t want the tour to stop just because of my dumb decisions. When we get back home, we’ll figure this all out.”
“Yeah,” Brian answered. “I think I can do that.”
“For as long as I can remember, I rarely saw my father. He’d go to work before I woke up and wouldn’t get home until after I went to bed, usually sometime after midnight. I was lucky if I saw him for just a few minutes a week.
“My mother’s name was Sarah. She was a huge part of my life. She juggled playing with me, cleaning the house, making the food, and working. I loved my mother.
“Oftentimes, I would fall asleep before Ron returned home. Sometimes I was still awake, just lying in bed, when he got back. Only then would I hear their arguments. I don’t remember what they fought about or the words that they exchanged, but I do remember that the arguments would always end with a sharp cry from my mother. I didn’t understand why my mother made that noise until I was older.
“I remember constantly finding bruises on Sarah. When I asked, she would make up some lie, usually that she had tripped or something simple like that, and I always believed her. Maybe it was better that I believed her and that I didn’t know the truth.
“The worst nights were when Ron got home early. I didn’t realize how bad they were until I got older, but I always felt the mood in the house change when Ron got home before I went to bed. On those nights, Sarah would tell me that we were going to play hide-and-go-seek. She would promise to count to a thousand while I went and hid. I found some of the best hiding spots, or at least my child mind thought that they were clever. Eventually Sarah would come find me, usually after Ron had left again or gone to bed.”
At this point, Clover paused, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Brian waited patiently. He wondered how long it had been since Clover had told this story to another breathing person.
“My mother would always be crying when she found me,” Clover continued, her voice shaky. Her eyes found Brian’s once again. As she continued, her voice regained its strength. “She’d put me to bed straight afterwards. Only when I got older did I realize that those nights were the nights when my mother got abused the worse by Ron.
“One night when I was nine, Sarah and I were in the kitchen cleaning up after we ate supper. I heard my father’s truck pull into the driveway. I turned to Sarah, opening my mouth to tell her that I’d been thinking of some new hiding places and she’d never find me this time, but I stopped cold when I saw the look on her face. She looked terrified. There was no color in her face; her eyes looked like a frightened animal’s when it’s caught in a trap from which there is no escape. She grabbed my arm and shoved me into the pantry, hastily shutting the door just as Ron walked in.
“But the door was open a crack, and I could look through that crack and see what was going on. Now I wish that the door had been closed as tight as it could be so I couldn’t see what happened. At the time, I didn’t know what was going on, and so I was curious.
“Ron started yelling at Sarah, calling her terrible names that I would’ve gotten spanked for even trying to say. He shoved her back; she hit the refrigerator hard enough to knock off several of the magnets. Most of the magnets were holding up pictures I’d drawn in school; they fluttered to the linoleum floor. I remember hoping that Ron wouldn’t step on them with his dirty boots: I’d worked hard on them and I didn’t want them to be ruined.
“Ron went to one of the drawers in the kitchen and pulled out a long knife Sarah used to cut up hard-shelled fruit like watermelon and cantaloupe,” Clover continued. She stopped again, bringing her hands to her face and rubbing her eyes hard with her palms. When she brought her hands away, Brian saw several tears slip from her eyes. Clover didn’t seem to notice.
“He went at my mother with the knife. He pulled it back above his head like a pitcher winding up a fastball. His first attack sunk into her shoulder. I screamed, but my mother’s own shriek drowned me out so Ron didn’t hear. He yanked it out, and his body kind of turned toward the pantry. I saw his face. I’ll never forget it; it’s etched into my memory like acid. It was the face of a psychopath, a man without morals, a complete monster. It shows up in my nightmares still.
“Blood splattered on the floor and across my drawings. He stabbed my mother again; she never stopped screaming. I retreated back into the corner of the pantry, covering my ears as best I could, trying to drown out my mother’s screams and Ron’s curses.
“After an eternity, there was silence. I didn’t come out of the pantry until the police arrived. One of the policemen carried me out of the kitchen, telling me to put my face into his shoulder so I couldn’t see. I didn’t want to see. Later, I was told that Ron had been fired previously that day; he’d gone home, told Sarah about it, and then gone out to drink.
“At his trial, I was the main witness. The only witness, really. There were others, showing how angry he was, that he was an alcoholic prone to violence, but my testimony was the one that put him in prison for life.”
Silence hung in the air once Clover finished. Brian just stared at her, a little shocked. How could such a young girl witness such an atrocity as the murder of her own mother and yet grow up to be a reasonably happy, completely sane young woman?
“How could you ever function again after that?” Brian asked once he found his voice.
“I’m not sure,” Clover answered. “I’ve asked myself that same thing. But I think some people move on from terrible occurrences better than other people. Two people can witness the exact same thing: one will grieve for a time and then decide that there’s nothing to do but move on (never forget, of course, but move on just the same); the other will let the event consume them.”
“And you’re one of the ones who never forget but move on nonetheless,” Brian said. Clover nodded.
“As you can see, I clearly haven’t moved on as well as I thought I did,” Clover said, glancing at the bucket in the sink. “Since I’ve started taking the drugs and alcohol, I’ve realized I’m so much happier when I forget that it ever happened. Maybe there’s a third type of person, somewhere in the middle. They appear to move on, they think they move on, but secretly the horrific event still consumes them.
“Can you please wait until after the tour to tell everyone about my addiction?” Clover asked. “I don’t want the tour to stop just because of my dumb decisions. When we get back home, we’ll figure this all out.”
“Yeah,” Brian answered. “I think I can do that.”