 
Prologue

I am not a writer, but I am passionate about my story, though it has not always been this way. I used to believe that I would carry most of these secrets with me to my grave, but I would often ask myself: what good will they do me then? Between these two covers, across these white pages, I have tried, with great effort, to stick to the facts. This story is not eloquently written with fancy words meant to stimulate the imagination; it is just simply told. There's some dialogue; my attempt to breathe life back into these bits of memory. The names of all parties involved have been changed to mask their identities. Though, there are some individuals, based upon our relationship, that, even with masked names, are easily identifiable.

My biggest reason for sharing these recollections, is to piece together the past so that I may, in light, understand the man I have become; so that I might be able to explain, to some degree, why I've hurt the people that have simply tried to heal my broken mind. Women, good women, would crumble at my feet, as I surged through life on a path dominated by destruction and self-loathing. Why? They would constantly seek formidable answers in an attempt to find some underlying meaning to my barbaric behavior. My answer, however, is not as simple as the question. To those that have asked me "why", I hope this story provides you with some closure and reassurance. When I said "It's not you, it's me" ...I meant it.

I am a selfish human being, this I am aware of now. It is one of my many flaws that I have come to accept and, though I have accepted it, I know that there is always room for improvement. I am improving, but I am not perfect. I had hoped that, by reliving these moments in my own words, I would find peace in my own story so that I, with the professional support of a therapist, could finally begin the healing process.

To my foster mother, forgive me for going against your wishes and publishing this piece. My intentions were not to disturb the peace that you have finally found, but simply, through the art of story-telling, to find my own. I know that your intentions were always pure, and your character had, for the most part, been selfless. There are many children in this world that will die, never having known the warmth and comfort of a mother's love. I, fortunately, will never be one of those children.

To my good friend Sed, thank you for the long nights and deep conversations. Thank you for being a friend in my hour of need. There is a saying that goes "in the darkest of times, good friends will show you the light, but true friends will take your hand and walk by your side." Thank you for walking with me when I could no longer walk alone.

To my biological mother, I will simply say that I understand what it is like to carry a hell, but I will not make excuses for you. A hell is a heavy burden, but it is one that we all must bear. It is, however, how you choose to carry the weight of this burden that ultimately decides your character. I wish you had chosen a different method in which to carry yours.

Finally, to the reader, please do not judge the weeds that have learned to flourish in my garden. For they, too, are just simply trying to survive. I once read a proverb that stated that the only difference between a flower and a weed is judgement. Hopefully, you will come to appreciate the dandelion in the same manner that you appreciate the rose.

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life.

-Rabindranath Tagore

When it is all said and done, and the dust of this story has finally settled, I hope you find the time to sit in the shade and enjoy what remains.

The Bigger Picture

Time is tricky, both a healer and a dealer of pain; both a gift given, and something loved that is quickly reclaimed. Time tinkers with the human mind, molding it to tell whichever story may best accommodate its true underlying motives. It controls our every move, influencing our choices, thoughts and interpretations of our own realities. Yet, it is us who has given Time the ability to force us to our knees...begging for more of it. I have often asked myself, if given more time how would I choose to reestablish myself within the realms of my own reality? What would I, to a realistic extent, do differently? I have searched for the answer and once again Time has claimed my tongue and the matter still haunts me as I settle into the gloomy comfort of simply... not knowing. How could I have known what Time would bring? How could I have known what Time would take? If I were given more time, I do not know what I would do differently or if I would, in any matter, do anything worth mentioning at all. Time is manmade, one of man's greatest inventions and it shall be, in "time", our greatest downfall.

Time has a strange way of rearranging memories, like unevenly cut pieces of a complex puzzle. However, life, unlike a puzzle, does not come with an accompanying image that guides our hands as we piece together the bigger picture. In life, we are simply given the pieces and expected, over time, to make sense of the mess.

My memories lay before me, but they mean nothing until I have pieced them together. Time has rearranged many of my memories and even, in rare circumstances, robbed me of them. Time is tricky, but it is precise. In a world of chaos, it remains as it is; precise. This precision, while unwelcomed in many faucets of my reality, guides me in the same way a hand may guide the pieces of a puzzle. I have, without knowing it, craved precision. My life, up until the very second that I began telling my story, has been chaos. I sit here, amongst my thoughts, piecing together the memories, in an attempt, to make sense of the bigger picture.

After all these years, why now?

When I informed my foster mother that I would be writing and eventually sharing my story, she was not particularly thrilled about my decision. She insisted that sharing such details would negatively impact my ability to properly heal. I believe, however, that she was more concerned about how this story would portray the nature of our good Christian family. There are many pieces to this puzzle and time, with all it has taken from me, has finally given me something far greater than a broken heart or bruised ego; it has given me a voice.

My first therapist was a family man with a fancy job and an impressive title. I was 8 years old when I first stepped into his dull colored, but well-lit office space. He told me to "make myself at home". When I think about it now, I laugh at the simplicity of his attempt at a kind and warmly gesture. Home? I had, seven months prior to this day, been ripped from my home and left in the care of an elderly woman with an unkind face. During those seven months I moved from one dwelling to another as the foster care system struggled to find a family willing to take in a flight-risk, but that's a story for another chapter.

As I stated before, my therapist was a family man with a fancy job and an impressive title. His intentions were good, but he failed me more times than he saved me. However, to an extent, I am forever in his debt because for the next nine years he offered me the insight that would eventually lead me to a paradise stained in blood. His intentions were good, but he was misguided and as a result I was lost, and my beacon of light would save me from the sea, only to lead me to a shore of jagged rocks and a slower death.

"You must learn to connect." This was the only bit of advice that he could offer me over the next nine years. I admit, that when my mother left, fear swallowed me, and darkness slowly consumed me. I was eight years old and every son needs his mother. Mothers foster compassion that fuels the fire that warms the soul. I was eight years old when the cold sting of the world found its way into my heart. At a very young age I had become accustomed to betrayal and my mind knew hate as well as sorrow. I longed for a certain type of love that, to this day, I still cannot put into words. How can one define that which he does not believe exist? What words can describe a feeling so demented that men have planted bullets deep within their consciousness in an attempt to escape the constant jarring pain? There are no words that make sense to a dying man. There is only fear of what is to come when Time comes to claim that which was never yours.

Time is unpredictable, but it is precise, and, in these moments, it has given me a gift; an opportunity. My story can do nothing for me, but maybe it can do something for you...the reader. Perhaps, through these words you can find your own salvation and truth. Maybe you'll devote more time to the things that matter; to the people that matter. Maybe when you tell your own story, it'll be around a warm fire with those that you love dearly, and, in that moment, Time won't matter. For a second, you'll be free from the constraints of manmade concepts that oppress the natural flow of everything.

After all these years, why should I share my story now? Because no time will ever be the right time, so it might as well be now.

Before the Child

My memory of my biological mother is faint in some areas and relatively irrelevant in others. Despite this, the memory of her is an important piece of a puzzle that I may never finish. As far as I am concerned, I am the only bit of evidence that she ever existed.

She was a child when she left home, merely 16 years old. Her mind was still developing when her world came crashing down around her. How could someone so young, so vulnerable and inexperienced, be prepared to carry the burden of secrecy and regret? I had hoped, when I began this book, to present my mother in a lively light and a vibrant fashion, but the truth has proven to be easier. She was a woman of many demons, but, as some tales in history will tell it, demons are but angels that fell from grace. That is simply how I imagined her; an angel that had, at some point, fallen from grace and found comfort in the arms of a different kind of hell. Her parents had had high hopes for their only child and pushed her to a limit that would prove to be detrimental to her wellbeing. She loved music, not mathematics. I do not believe that my grandparents were unkind, but rather firm and lacked understanding. Had they known what music meant to my mother, perhaps they would not have taken it from her so readily, pushing her into the arms of my father.

He was a regular guy, but in the small town of Malad Idaho, he was a dream come true. From what I can remember, my mother spoke highly of him often, but not always. She loved him because he was the gateway to a world she had only read about in storybooks. "Malad" is the French word for sickly. I couldn't imagine a better way to explain the way that town twisted my mother as she succumbed to the music that pulled her from the skies. She was willing to leave heaven behind because she was starving for the truth that only forbidden fruit could offer.

He was 10 years older than she was and their relationship was short, but he was the only part of her past that she dared to revisit. When I was younger, I would often ask about my dad. What did he look like? What was his favorite flavor of ice cream? What kind of music did he prefer? Most of these questions she answered with lies because it was easier than admitting that she simply did not know. For a while, her answers satisfied my desire to know who this mysterious man was, but soon my questions began to invade the delicate nature of the relationship my mother and father shared. What was his name? Why did he leave? Did he not love us?

My father groomed my mother. He was in a small garage band that never really took off. They performed locally at small cafes and at the birthday parties of relatives and friends, but their name would never headline sold-out shows across the nation. Despite this harsh reality, my father was persistent and passionate. My mother fell in love with his drive and his sound. She would've followed him to the ends of the Earth and, in some ways, she kind of did.

When my dad decided to leave Malad Idaho behind, my mother did not hesitate to pack her things and stow away in his van. She never left a letter, an explanation or a reasoning behind her leaving...she just went. My grandparents would die never knowing what happened to their little girl or what had become of the child growing in her belly.

The drive to Texas was long and heated. My mother, during the trip, had revealed to my father that she was pregnant with his child. He was neither excited nor worried. His main focus was on the opportunities awaiting him in Houston Texas. A friend had promised him that a record producer was lined up, waiting to hear the new sound my dad's band had cooked up in the sickly town of Idaho. However, music is a fluid art; always changing. By the time my dad's band had made it to Houston, there was a new sound filling the streets; a sound his band could not match in rhythm or intensity. The trip had been a failure and the producers were no longer interested. While my dad's heart was broken, my mother continued to fall in love. They settled down in a small town right outside of Houston. My dad got a job at a car shop and my mother occasionally worked as a waitress at a nearby café, getting paid under the table. Eventually, they were able to afford a small apartment in a quaint area. Six months after arriving to Houston, my dad's band had disbanded and the only person still aching to hear his music was my mother. He would play for her occasionally, but his passion had died along with his will to stay sober. He began to drink more and eventually his own shame and regrets began to consume him.

He blamed her for his failures. He told her that he wanted to return to Idaho because his family and wife were awaiting his glorious return. While the shame was crushing, he'd rather face them than to stay with her. She was 16 and pregnant...would could she offer him?

This was the first time he had mentioned his wife to her and the confession broke her in such a way, that she would never fully heal. He wanted to leave, but she knew that she could not return to Malad. Her stomach had grown, and her parents would never accept her child, nor forgive her for her decision to leave. The truth is, they would have forgiven her. I began digging through various files and investigating "missing persons" reports filed in Idaho during the time. They never stopped searching for her and they had, until the day they both perished many years later, begged her to come home. However, she was angry and blamed the world for her broken heart and sunken dreams.

She was eight months pregnant the day my father walked out the door for the last time back to Malad. Whenever she told me this story, she claimed to have never cried. "Somethings you just have to learn to live with and deal with alone." This was always her advice to me and this was how she chose to raise me for the next eight years. If I fell and skinned my knee, she never kissed it better. She would turn her head and expect me to deal with this dilemma alone. I loved my mother, but she taught me how to live without her because she knew she would never be able to provide a solid foundation on which to raise me. Do I blame her for leaving me behind? Sometimes I do, but I know now that it was not a decision without consequences...for the both of us.

Who she is.... who she was.

I have written and re-written this piece several times. I have reluctantly settled with the facts that I know best. I will never be fully satisfied with what little I know of my biological mother. She was lonely before my father showed up into her life. I only know this to be true because my father is not the type of person one seeks out for anything other than to fill a gaping hole that has the potential to rot the soul. However, she did not simply "seek" him out, she fell in love with him and then bore him a son. She was young, but far from naïve. She was simply lonely, and he gave meaning to the gap that existed within her life. Her parents cared for her, but not about her. I say this to say, they nurtured her body as any loving parent would for their child, but my father gave her something deeper; more meaningful. He nurtured her soul.

She was resilient, but not much of a mother. She would have, however, made a wonderful CEO of a small, but highly successful business. She was course, blunt and always looking towards the horizon, neglecting the moon setting behind her. She was motivated and made ends meet, even after my father abandoned her and their unborn child.

The hardest thing about writing about her, is remembering her in a physical sense. I have some traces, in the very darkest corners of my mind, of strawberry kissed hair and thin, tempered lips. Her eyes were an icy blue like the clearest of ocean waters, but they were filled with a sadness that I cannot recall enough to fully describe here. She was, at least for me, a breath of fresh air. She filled my lungs but neglected my soul in such a way that I was both full of love and starving for her attention. I was both living and dying as I grew to know only one side of her; the angry side. She blamed me for my father leaving.

"We never needed a child y'know! He ran off because the burden would've been too much for any man, especially one on the rise. He loved me but you boy, he didn't have enough room in his heart."

They are just words and she is only human. Please, do not for a moment believe that I am making excuses for her. I am, however, attempting to leave all judgement at the door step as I welcome myself into her life as I imagined she lived it. He blamed her for his failures and she blamed me for theirs.

I am not making excuses for her because she no longer needs excuses. To be quite honest, I imagine that she made plenty of excuses on her own, long before I even sat down to begin this story. There is a saying that goes "if you give a man a fish, he will eat for a day. However, if you teach a man to fish, he will eat for a lifetime." My mother did not know how to nurture a young soul, because she had never been taught to provide that type of love and encouragement. She knew that her responsibilities were simple: keep me fed, clothed and alive.... for the most part. In her mind, this was her duty to me as my mother; no more and no less. However, as I grew older, I began to recognize the change in her behavioral patterns. Some days she was calmer and would sing me songs that my father had wrote for her during a time when she only knew bliss and adventure.

"He wrote this song for me when he and I first started going out." She'd say. "It's called Beloved, be love."

I do not remember the exact words to the song, only the title. I would lay back on the old sofa where I slept, and she would lean on the sofa's arm, stroking my hair as I dozed off. Her voice would fill my dreams as I drifted away from Time and reality. How simple and wonderful were these stolen moments of joy? These moments meant everything to me. They were but tiny pieces of a much bigger puzzle, but they had their place, nonetheless.

She was a firefly in a world of lady bugs and butterflies. The rest of the world did not understand the way she wore her light. Only when the darkness covered the sky like a thick blanket, did people dare to notice her and watch in awe, as she danced the night away. She had very few female friends, but men loved her; so much in fact, that she brought a different one home every week. She introduced them all to me as my "uncle". All these men wanted desperately to love my mother, but she would always force them out the next morning. I distinctly remember one man came back to the apartment a few days after my mother had kicked him out; he had brought flowers and sweet treats. She let him in long enough to accept the gifts and then she kicked him out again.

When I started school, the conditions we lived in became harder to hide from the outside world. Teachers often questioned me about the conditions of my clothing and hair. My cheeks were always sticky, and my socks were wet and filthy from weeks of wearing them and not washing them. I was an easy target for other students as well. I was never invited to birthday parties or invited to play tag or leap frog. I never fit in, but I was content in my loneliness. At a young age my mother had taught me to find solace in the empty spaces around me.

"More friends, more problems." She'd casually chant the words as though they were incantations to keep people away.

As I mentioned before, some days were easier for her, but other days were filled with the pain my father had left her to deal with all those years ago. The pain left her enraged and she would drown out her sorrows in thin white lines that she traced across our table's top. Her eyes glazed over, and during these moments she would look at me as if I were a stranger. Her icy blue eyes would become dull and cloudy with a grey bleakness that accentuated her misery. I often wondered if she ever hated me for existing; if she ever hated me for my father's mistakes.

We'll call him "Uncle T" for the sake of identifying characters.

My mother would often leave me home alone most nights while she worked or partied. Our neighbor, Ms. Rosa, was an elderly Mexican woman that spoke little English, but she was the first human being to show me an ounce of motherly kindness. Her grandson, Roberto, would become my first best friend. He taught me how to mold play dough and which cartoons were the best (The roadrunner was our favorite). Up until this point in time, I had never seen cartoons because we didn't own a television. I would see televisions in the windows of shops and occasionally at school, but never from the comfort of a plastic wrapped couch with delicious soup and a dear friend. This was yet another small but essential piece to a grand puzzle.

My mother hated Ms. Rosa. "She thinks she can feed and look after you better than I can!" She shouted one evening after coming home and finding me gone.

After visiting with Ms. Rosa and Roberto, I would usually return home before my mother knew I had even left, but on this night, I had decided to stay. A storm had swept across our area and the thunder and lightening seemed much scarier in an empty, pitch black apartment. I had stood out in the rain for a solid 30 seconds, banging on Ms. Rosa's door, absolutely terrified. I often dream of this horrific night. It was a night of more than just leaking ceilings and howling skies. It was one of my first recollections of true fear. It was my first recollection of true helplessness and longing for the security of a mother's hug. I remember standing outside of Ms. Rosa's apartment, rain drops racing down my pale cheeks. My small fingers were curled into a shivering fist that beat against the thin door in rhythm with the thunderous skies. I was afraid she would not hear me and that she would not come to rescue me from the impeding nightmare, but she did. She opened the door, grabbed my collar and pulled me inside.

She undressed me and forced me into a hot bath. She sat next to the tub with a washcloth and bowl. She filled the bowl with a generous amount of water and poured it over my head. The warmth of the water embraced my shivering body. She began scrubbing me from head to toe. I had never been so thoroughly clean in my life. When she was sure she had removed every spec of dirt, dust and sticky matter...she dressed me in fresh linens and gave me a giant bowl of her infamous stew. My stomach, mind and soul were all settled in a matter of minutes. The storm outside seemed further away now, but I dare not leave the comfort of my safe haven. Her plastic wrapped sofa cradled my little body like a California king. Seconds after finishing my stew, I was fast asleep.

I don't remember if it was the thunder or my mother banging furiously on the door that suddenly shook me from my sleep. I faintly remember my mother and Ms. Rosa exchanging feverish words as my small frame was yanked from the couch. I was half asleep as I was drug through the front door and out into the rain. The freezing cold drops shocked me from my half-dazed state. I remember her nails digging into my soaked flesh as she fished around in her purse for the door key.

"She thinks she can feed and look after you better than I can!" She shrieked. "You stay away from that bitch and that kid. I don't want you over there ever again!! Do you understand me?!"

I nodded my head and after she finally found the door key, I followed her inside. She didn't draw me up a hot bath or comfort me in the way Ms. Rosa had. She simply sat at the table and laid out her white lines. I went back to bed in my wet clothes and that night simply became a memory; a memory that would later come back to haunt me night after night until I was 16 years old. I hate that I constantly remember her in that fashion, but that night had, perhaps, the biggest impact on how I visualized her. She loved me, but this type of love had limitations. However, she was embarrassed of these limitations and would not allow anyone else to fill the shoes she had long ago abandoned.

Uncle T came into our lives purely by chance. He was headed through town when he stopped at the diner where my mother worked. She had taken an extra shift and as a result, their paths crossed. He seemed like a genuine man. He told her he worked for one of the oil companies and the nature of his work often called for travel. I'm guessing he ordered a coffee and pancakes, he seemed to always love these. My mother, scoping him out as a possible escape from her hellish reality, allowed him to groom her with his fancy words and charming smirk. He asked if he could take her out one night after he finished his work out of town. My mother had never been on a real date, so his southern charm probably caught her off guard. She accepted his offer and they set a date. This moment, though not quite a memory of my own, was a piece of the puzzle that altered our simple lives forever.

I remember the night Uncle T and my mother had their first date. My mother rushed home after work, ignoring my pleas for a bit to eat. She showered, dressed and indulged in her secret habit at her spot at the table. She spent a lot of time in the mirror, fiddling with her hair and her brand-new dress. I sat on the sofa with my broken crayons and coloring book. I was invisible to her. I was beginning to drift off when a hard knock at the door forced me back into reality.

"Don't embarrass me." Was all that she said to me.

She opened the door and welcomed Uncle T into our humble apartment. At first, his tall stature and broad shoulders frightened me. He reminded me of a giant. His voice was low, and his hands were massive in comparison to my mother's. He complimented her dress and kissed her as though they hadn't just met. After a few seconds, he finally noticed me sitting on the couch (petrified I'm sure). He walked over and sat next to me. He held his hand out and introduced himself.

"Well aren't you going to shake my hand little fella?"

I remember reluctantly extending my arm and wrapping my frail hand around one of his massive fingers. He smiled and in his smile was a predator's grin. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bag of animal crackers. He handed them to me.

"This is for you little fella." He said, as he ruffled my hair and then turned his attention back to my mother. "Shall we ma'am? I have a night to glorious to pass up planned out just for you."

My mother smiled lovingly at him; a way in which I had never seen her smile. Her eyes seemed to be glowing as she watched him head over to the front door, beckoning her to follow.

"You stay away from those neighbors." She instructed me, as they disappeared through the doorway.

After that night, Uncle T made regular visits and even spent some nights in our apartment. In the beginning, he was the hero that my mother and I both needed. He bought us better living room furniture and even got me a TV and VCR. I remember the massive collection of white Barney tapes that he brought over to me. He spent an entire day teaching me to work the television and then we spent the night watching Barney's entire collection.

"Are you my dad?" I remembered asking him. He chuckled, but never really answered.

The Back Room

The first few weeks seemed like a dream come true for me. Uncle T spoiled me with new clothes, toys and even a mattress for me to sleep on. He would drive me around in his station wagon and take me to the park and out for ice cream. He and my mother would occasionally fight, but at this stage in my life, I assumed all adults yelled and thought nothing of it. There was a lot about Uncle T that I did not quite understand until I was older. His motives ran deeper than winning my mother's heart; he was after her trust and her soul. He funded her habit and even pushed her to try different drugs that eventually led to her losing her job. Without a job, she relied on him to pay the bills, fill the pantry and fuel her addiction; he had her right where he wanted her. A few weeks after my mother lost her job, Uncle T moved in.

He had, in a matter of days, become a completely different person. I was no longer allowed to sit on the sofa and watch my Barney tapes.

"I've had a long fucking day and I don't want to watch Barney. Go to the back room and play with your toys. Close the door behind you."

I spent a lot of time alone in the back room, but as I mentioned before, I welcomed the empty spaces around me. I now had plenty of toys to keep my imagination vibrant and alive. I would often pretend that Uncle T didn't exist, and my mother and I lived as we had before he invaded our simple lives. He was a parasite in the belly of the beast. My mother was a monster before him, but she was a completely different devil with him in her midst. During all of our time together, these few months were, perhaps, the most painful.

Uncle T had a violent streak. I was never allowed to leave the room and my mother was never allowed to leave the apartment. We were his prisoners. However, in our own ways, we didn't mind. My mother was content as long as her needs were met, and I was at home when embraced by the lumbering solitude. The only friends that I had were Cozmo and Tim, house roaches that I trapped beneath a cup in my room. Don't be so quick to judge me. What child hasn't played with bugs?

I'd let them crawl in my hand, offering them the subtle illusion that they were free. When they made it to the edge of my fingertips, I would slowly curve my fingers inwards, trapping them in my palm; there's no escape. I would sometimes spend hours freeing and then re-capturing Cozmo and Tim. I would let them explore the only world I allowed them to know. Were they happy? I honestly did not care....at first. Then Cozmo died; he was the smaller of the two. He wasn't as strong, nor as fast as Tim. I had accidently crushed him beneath the edge of the cup when re-capturing them. I grieved silently in the back room that day.

I had experienced sadness before, but not quite like this. A part of me knew that keeping Cozmo and Tim in such perilous conditions was unfair, but I could not let them go. Perhaps, I was more afraid of loneliness than I care to admit. However, this sudden compassion, but lack of understanding, is how I often fueled my relationships. I would grow up and spend years capturing and releasing different women; keeping them imprisoned within the palm of my hand, promising them freedom but never delivering it. In the end, I decided to also kill Tim. It seemed logical to end his existence than to simply set him free.

The back room, later in my life, would become a symbolism of my own mind. I often feel trapped within the realms of my own consciousness; struggling to escape all the wrong I've done and those whom have wronged me. There's a door and a window; both are viable means of escape, but I stay put within my small, merciless prison. Why? Perhaps, this is why the caged bird sings. The cage bird knows its fate when it is trapped inside of its little, metal prison. To be free is to fall victim to the unknown. I would rather stay trapped in the hell that I had come to know so intimately, than to leave it behind in search of unfamiliar treacheries. What was happiness to a child that only knew mild contentment? The back room was my prison and my safe haven.

The Meltdown

Uncle T had been living with us nearly the entire summer. He had full control of the apartment and everyone within it. We were his puppets. When I try to examine Uncle T, I find it difficult to come to any logical conclusion because I know so little of his former life. Was he the abused child that grew into a damaged man? Was he a god-fearing man that believed that, within the home, he was God? Was he a controlling, manipulating sociopath that found relief in destroying the lives of others? Uncle T could have easily, without discrimination, been all of these collectively.

I remember the first night I saw him beat my mother. Was this the first time that he had hit her? I didn't know. I was sitting at the table, eating my cereal before bed. Uncle T and my mother stood in front of the television arguing. I attempted to stare through them in order to catch the images flickering across the lit screen. I don't remember what they were arguing about that day, but I have, over the years, tried to stitch the pieces together and make sense of the memory. He had been funding my mother's addiction, but I believe he was now facing his own financial crisis and could no longer afford the luxury of being the King of the castle. My mother, without her fix, was beginning to fall apart before my eyes. She had stopped showering and her hair was a matted, tangled mess around her skull.

"You are a fucking pig!!" He would shout at her.

She wanted him out. She wanted him gone. The once content prisoner, now felt the pressure of the walls closing in as her cage began to shrink. He refused to leave, and the argument started like any fire would, when a spark kissed the tinder meant to ignite it. Their words were like sparks, searing one another's ego beyond repair. The moment was heated, and the flames of their anger danced like dying stars in an endless space. When they were burned out and the ashes fell, he raised his hand and struck her with a blow that sent her tumbling backwards into the television set. The screen hit the floor and shattered. He stood over her like a mountain preparing to crumble back into the sea from which it rose. He rose his massive hand again and brought it down across her back. He did it again and again. When she tried to cover her face, he'd grab her arm and force her into a vulnerable state. His fists became weapons. The hand I had once shook, was now a fractious cannon. Blow after blow, she begged him to stop.

This moment must've lasted only seconds, but it easily felt like an eternity. I don't know what possessed me to drop my spoon. I distinctly remember the sound of the metallic spoon coming into contact with the glass bowl as I released it from my grip. I felt my legs moving as I stood up from my seat. My knees lifted towards my chest as I broke out into a full run, my hands outstretched and tears swelling in my tired eyes. My mouth was wide open, but I do not remember if I screamed or said anything. I only remember throwing my entire body into the colossal human being that had weaseled his way into our lives. My efforts caused him to drunkenly stumble, but he quickly regained his balance and looked at me stunned.

"Go to the back room."

I didn't move. I stood my ground as my body trembled. Was I trembling out of anger or fear? Perhaps both. My mother pleaded for me to leave this to her.

"I'm okay baby. Just listen to him..."

Was she protecting me? This was the first time she had ever tried to protect me. This small gesture, though it took years for me to notice, was my mother's true nature buried deeply in a damaged soul. She was broken, but within the cracks of her wrecked being, her love for me flowed. However, Uncle T had no love for me and the only thing that flowed through the cracks of his broken, mangled soul was Gin and utter hatred. He took a step towards me and smirked the way he had when he first met my mother; the night of their first date.

"You're a brave little lad. Are you protecting your mother? You know she's a junkie, right? She'd trade your little ass in for a fix any day!!"

I don't remember if I said anything back, but now my body was paralyzed with fear. I wanted to run to the back room as he approached me, but my legs were no longer my own. I stood and awaited my fate. This is what happens when you leave the hell you once knew; you find yourself lost in another one. I should have stayed in my safe haven; I should have stayed in the hell that I had come to know so intimately. He towered over me and grinned; the predator smile had returned. He began unbuckling his belt and wrapped his massive fingers around my neck as he forced me to lean over the couch. I could hear the belt whip through the air as he released it from the loops of his jeans.

"I'll teach you some good southern manners..." he said as he whipped the leather belt across my backside.

The initial pain was more than I had ever felt. I wanted to scream but he forced my face into one of the couch's pillows. The belt whipped through the air again and swiped me across my back; it whipped violently again and again. Each time was more painful than the last as the leather carved his anger into my skin. I waited to be rescued; I waited to hear the comfort of my mother's voice as she pulled the belt from Uncle T's hand, but she never came. She cowered in the corner, with her eyes closed, praying to a God that would never answer.

I woke up that night in my bed, completely naked. I don't remember what occurred between the time of my beating and me reaching my safe haven once more. I suppose I passed out. My body ached, but I could tell that someone had already treated the worst of my wounds. I didn't dare move or cry out. I just laid there, exposed and broken.

Whom do you trust in your life reader? Who do you love? Is the love real and everlasting or is it simply filling the hole in your life? Sometimes we crave things that fuel our desire to exist. My mother craved Uncle T because he filled a hole that my father had left unstitched. However, in our attempts to fuel these desires, we often forget the innocent souls that are lost in the process. My mother, while seeking her own salvation and attempting to heal her own broken heart, had simply forgotten my innocent soul. Sometimes I blame her and other times.... I understand.

"Say Farewell Young Lad."

The beatings and Uncle T's temper only worsened as the days progressed. My mother's face was nearly unrecognizable behind the various shades of black and blue. Her lips were swollen, and her words were slurred. He never had to force her to stay home when he departed because she was too embarrassed to break through the threshold with her mangled mug. She truly was a prisoner. He had conquered her physically and mentally. Whatever his mission was when he came into our lives, it had reached its peak in damages dealt (or so I thought). I was afraid to leave my room and my mother was afraid to face an even harsher truth; she had failed.

However, despite these horrific circumstances, the worst was yet to come. One night, Uncle T came home smelling like alcohol, sweat and misery. He was angrier than he had ever been. He couldn't find his key, so he banged angrily on the door until my mother reluctantly allowed him inside. He wanted her completely, but she wasn't in the mood and refused him.

"You refuse me in my home?!" He bellowed.

My mom ignored his angry spouts and just cowered in his wake. Her head lowered, and her shoulders hunched in a submissive position, she waited for the blow. He clumsily ruffled her matted hair and laughed.

"Fine woman. Where's the boy?"

This part of my story I have hesitated to tell for many years. I have written and re-written this section hundreds of times, afraid to reveal my darkest truth. I was very young at this point in my life and many therapists have assured me that my memories may not be as intact as they feel, but I am no fool. Memories are broken fragments that find their way back to the forefront of our minds, regardless of our futile attempts to suppress them. That night, he came into the back room, my only safe haven on this god-forsaken planet. I pretended to be asleep, but he didn't care. He laid next to me, his face inches from my own.

"You're not sleep boy..." he whispered.

A secret is the most painful of memories. It is the invisible hand that muffles the scream and beats the strong-willed. A secret is a wave of anguish, washed over the bodies of the suffering that have not the strength to stay afloat. It was our "little secret". It was a moment that simply became a memory; a memory that I relived night after night until the day that even you (Uncle T), were too afraid to face the devil that you had let in.

When my mom would question me about the blood on my mattress and clothes, at first, I was reluctant to tell the truth. However, a part of me believed that she already knew what type of monster slept beneath our roof.

"It was Uncle T..."

She hugged me, told me to wash up and come to the table for dinner. She had finally showered, but the same bleak emptiness still haunted her eyes. She never acknowledged the truth that I had offered. No one had noticed how the life had left my eyes. An entire school system, community and my own mother had failed to protect me.

I have examined much of my past in an effort to find some sort of understanding. The day my mother decided to leave me is perhaps the hardest part to analyze. For the longest time I believed that she had done it because Uncle T had given her an ultimatum: "Me or the boy?"

He couldn't stand looking at me because I was a constant reminder of the sickness that swelled inside of him. He wanted me gone, but he wanted to keep my mother. She felt as though she had no choice, so she made the wrong one. She told me that we were going to Disneyland; an obvious lie now, but not to an eight-year-old. We had packed up the entire house and loaded as much as we could into Uncle T's station wagon. We were leaving the only home I knew behind. My mother cried the entire time. She refused to look at me or even be in the same room with me. The guilt was beginning to consume her...I see that now.

We climbed into the station wagon. I stayed silent in the backseat, but my heart was beating eagerly with anticipation. Uncle T turned around from the front seat and smiled; the return of the predator grin.

"Say farewell young lad. Disneyland awaits!"

The Drive and A Moment to Ponder

The drive was long and silent. No one spoke, but a white elephant weighed the station wagon down to the ground. My mother constantly chain smoked as she fought the urge to satisfy her monstrous hunger. The back windows wouldn't roll down, so I choked violently on the pooling second hand smoke. Uncle T seemed irritated as he banged his fingers, in no particular rhythm, against the steering wheel. The world around me began to change as we passed from one small town to the next. I had never been so far from home, so far from my safe haven. As I watched the world change through the glare of the dirty back-seat window, I began to grow sadder as reality crept into my young mind. I would never see Ms. Rosa or Roberto again. I never even got the chance to say goodbye. I do not even remember their last names. I have, in my adult life, attempted to look them up and reconnect with them as I battle the ghost from my past. I have not been so lucky.

We made no stops along the way. I desperately needed to pee, but I dare not utter a word about my own needs. My stomach was beginning to growl and my body was growing uncomfortable in the cramped space where I had been sitting for the past four hours. My mouth was agonizingly parched. The sun was beginning to beat down on the old station wagon as it lunged onwards. Are we there yet?

My mind began to wander as I analyzed the events that led up to this moment. Even at a young age, I realized my mother's vulnerability and desperate need for help. She was as trapped as Cozmo and Tim were and her fate, if things did not change, would undeniably be similar. He would kill her.

I know now that I was too young to save her. There was nothing more I could do as an eight-year-old child. You (mother) will never be able to read this story, my story, but know that I understood. When that station wagon stopped, my mother grabbed my hand and the single suit case that was tied to the top of the station wagon. She never looked down at me because she knew that this grey building was nothing like the Disneyland that I had imagined.

She simply tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my protruding ears, this was her goodbye. She did not give me a kiss, nor did she embrace me. She simply left me alone. It would be eight long years before she reached out to me again, eager to make amends; a privilege I would not grant her before she died from an apparent overdose. The chapter of my story regarding my mother was over. I would never see Uncle T again, but the ramifications of our situation-ship still heavily impact my ability to socialize, trust and build meaningful relationships. My mother's absence also had its own tolls. I had never been properly loved by my mother and, for many years, I would place blame on the numerous women that attempted to fix me. My own mother could not find it in her heart to truly love me, so how could I trust that any other woman would?

Home to Home with No Place to Belong

The first few weeks at the group home were the most difficult. I spent a lot of time alone, calculating my options and waiting for her to return. When she had dropped me off, we had come through two big metal doors. When the doors opened, the hinges squealed and echoed throughout the corridors. Whenever the creaky metal doors played their cringe-worthy tune, I would run towards the front of the building, hoping it was her that had inspired their notes; it never was. Time was staring me in the face, mocking me as I waited. The clock's ticking, at first, was a melody that I found comfort in. Every second would cradle me as the hand slowly raced around the clock; any moment could be the moment she returned. I was hopeful. As time progressed my mood began to change.

How long does it take for one to reach a point of absolute madness? The rhythmic ticking began to etch its way into my skull; the way a worm invades an apple. Day and night, the sound felt like razor blades kissing my skin; like sharpened nails traveling across a dry chalkboard. I'd cover my ears, but the ticking only worsened as I realized that Time truly was never on my side. Time is tricky and it tinkers with our minds as it pleases. I stopped eating, sleeping and communicating as reality swallowed my innocence whole, leaving behind an empty shell carrying a tortured soul. Please do not pity me. This needed to happen. I needed to feel this type of betrayal and hatred. I had to travel to the most heinous of places within my thoughts to truly appreciate the gift of pain, fear and loneliness. I was a stone block sitting before its creator, and as the hands of Time chiseled at my outer layers, my truest-self began to emerge. In order to truly live, I needed to kill the part of myself that longed for a love that I had never known.

My physical condition was quickly deteriorating. When I look back at my own files that I had, many years later, retrieved from the group home: I was underweight, not sleeping and suffering from intense diarrhea. Below is a scanned copy of one of the many notes I found within my file, providing a few details of my physical and mental conditions during the first few weeks (it reads as follows):

Lucas has not slept in nearly 3 days. He is also refusing to eat or engage in outside activities. We are requesting immediate consideration to have him placed in a foster home where he is the only child. We believe that with intense one-on-one attention and therapy he will make a full recovery. Current issues include: not eating, not sleeping, he will not talk or play with the other children, he has also began hitting himself and hiding for hours within the building.

Please call at your earliest convenience.

My behavior was also a problem. I became very angry with my situation. I blamed everyone except for the monster that had planted me there. My garden of life was now overwhelmed with thirsty weeds that choked the roses and pierced their stems. What had my life become in a matter of months? Uncle T had taken the only human that meant anything to me, but even she, my mother, did not love me fully. The world would pay for her mistakes.

The group home workers, while they ultimately had my best interest at heart, struggled to rehabilitate me. My spiraling and violent behavior made establishing a connection with the people around me difficult. I had no friends. The loneliness here was nothing like the back room. I had no privacy or control of my surroundings. My environment was a constant clutter of screaming children, loud music and frustrated workers.

She was never coming back; I knew that now, but a part of me remained hopeful. Perhaps, by some unseen miracle, she would change her mind and come running. She would rescue me, like I had hoped for all those times before. She would apologize and, until the day she died, she would work to make things right. It was a lovely dream, but here, in this world, there was little room for dreamers. I was truly alone in a new hell; a memory that settled uncomfortably upon my broken heart.

I often wonder if there is a God and, if there is, why would he allow such suffering to exist? I cannot place blame into the hands of anyone other than my mother, but I desperately needed someone to be an outlet; someone to share this crippling pain and copious amounts of distrust with. Someone needed to hurt the way I was hurting.

My case worker would often pull me aside and attempt to strike up a conversation with me about my mother. I refused to discuss any parts of my past. In the scanned document below, she briefly describes one of our sessions in her notes:

I won't share all of her notes here, but it was apparent that she was concerned with my physical deterioration, more so than my mental. The visible bruises that were littered across my pale skin were only a fraction of the wounds I had sustained for the past eight years. Over the next few weeks, as doctors and therapists assessed me, they would dig deeper into my past, utilizing visual cues as a means deemed necessary to aide me on the road to recovery. There were whispering rumors circulating amongst the workers regarding my life before the group home. However, their pity did not comfort their disdain for my unruly behavior. I was a force contained in a confined, murky space. I would not flourish within this prison, yet prisons were all I knew. At least when I was in the back room, I had the comfort of knowing that my mother existed just beyond the jammed door. Beyond the metal doors of the group home, the unknown world beckoned to me; a world that she no longer existed in.

I remember the day the case worker asked me about my bruises. They were slowly starting to heal, but to the outside observer, they appeared horrendous. However, in a place like this, bruises, black eyes and busted lips weren't uncommon. Every child here had a story, secret or longing for someone. We were forgotten children to the outside world, but we, ourselves, had not forgotten.

"Did you mother use to hit you?" She would ask in a calm tone.

The calmness of her voice was almost intoxicating. It probably seemed (to eight-year-old me) that she cared. Perhaps she was doing more than "her job". Maybe my welfare was of great importance to her, but then again, she probably asked 200 other children the same question.

I would simply shake my head. My mother did not do this to me, but I dare not utter the name of the monster that did. I think a part of me believed that he still lurked in the shadows; behind every locked door or around every sharp corner. He was long gone, but I still felt his presence every time I had to undress to bathe or lay down at night to sleep. The mind is man's greatest prison, perhaps even more so than the back room.

  My secret was no longer a secret. In a particular doctor's report, which I won't share here due to the gruesome nature and details of my condition, all truths were brought to light. The pace of my day-to-day life began to quicken. I was seeing a therapist four days a week and my case worker was dropping in regularly, attempting to establish a deeper connection with me. However, despite their best efforts, I would never give them the details their reports/concerns required. It was a part of my life that I would never openly talk about, until now.

I began having nightmares that would result in me waking up in cold sweats and screaming for my mother. This did not go over well with the other children. I became an even bigger target for ridicule and taunting. My personal belongings that I had brought with me the first day I arrived (toys and clothing) were no longer in my possession. They had all been stolen, broken or hidden by other children. All remnants of my past life had been taken from me. It was like the past eight years, up until the day I walked through the vast metal doors, had not happened.

I was struggling to remember what she looked like and how her voice sounded. I was beginning to forget the words to the song that my father had wrote for her that she, many years later, would dedicate to me. Beloved, be love. I was forgetting the way our old apartment building shook in the wind. I couldn't remember exactly how our table looked or what color our old sofa was. Time was tinkering with my mind; oppressing certain details to make way for what was to come. My behavior, at this point, had reached a dangerous level. I began lashing out more violently as described in one of my many behavioral reports:

I needed more attention than they could give me, so four months after my arrival to the group home, they informed me that they had found an elderly couple willing to temporarily take me in. This couple, according to the provided records, served as a middle ground for foster children. They opened their home to difficult cases such as my own. They were retired but had both worked as engineers during their younger years. They routinely took in difficult, but temporary cases. Children were always coming and going from their home, but I was a particularly special case. In the file, the case worker had requested that the couple take in no other children during their time with me. I would require around the clock care and monitoring.

The first thing I noticed when I met Mr. and Mrs. Lintman, was the kindness in their eyes and voices. They were gentle people with kind hearts, but they were also easily manipulated, and I would use this to my advantage. When my case worker informed me that I would get to leave the group home, the plotting and planning immediately began. I was young, but I was persistent. I had but a single mission: to find my mother.

Two weeks after meeting the Lintmans for the first time, my bags were packed, and I sat on a long bench in a dimly lit corridor, waiting for the massive metal doors to creak their notes. The melody they played today was one enriched with freedom. I don't remember the exact details of that day, but I can imagine that, for the first time since my arrival to the group home, I was smiling.

Their home was quaint, but it was, at this time in my life, one of the fanciest places I had ever laid my head. I remember walking in to the smell of a pie cooling on the kitchen's counter top; pecan pie. I had never had pecan pie, but its molting, hot sugary goodness filled my nostrils and instigated an intense amount of drooling. Mrs. Lintman had baked it just for me after reading in my file that I "loved sweets".

My room was the biggest room in the house with its own bathroom. My bed was a queen-sized mattress with a box spring and a frame. In the back room I had only had a single, dirty mattress that hugged our apartment's filthy floor. The walls were evenly painted, and a small desk sat neatly in an open corner. The window was slightly raised, so the burgundy curtains swayed like leaves in the wind. The bed was made, the lights were bright, the floors were clean.

"This is all yours." Mr. Lintman explained. "You'll be staying here for a little while, but we can decorate it however you'd like."

A little while? The excitement in me secretly died. This, however beautiful, was not my home. I did not belong with these people. Mrs. Lintman was not my mother. I had, for a second, almost lost my focus.

While I secretly built up the confidence to run away, they welcomed me with opened arms. As promised, Mr. Lintman took me shopping and allowed me to decorate my room the way I liked. I wanted my room to be blue and red like superman. While at the group home, I had come to love the superman cartoons and I deeply identified with the character on various levels. Though our circumstances were different, he had left his home as well.

I would go into the bathroom and pull the long, white drying towel from the rack. I'd tie it tightly around my neck and look into the mirror at my reflection. The thing I love most about superman, is that he does not have to hide who he truly is like most heroes. He had no real need for a mask or a hat to conceal the super-being that he was; he existed freely in his natural form. This is what I longed for; to exist in a form without constraints and limitations, but when had I ever, in my short life, truly been myself? Even with my cape on, I did not recognize myself. Perhaps, after all, I was nothing like Clark Kent.

One night I rose from my bed quietly. Tonight, was the night; the decision had been made. I grabbed my backpack and stuffed it with a few toys, snack packs and a blanket that I had grown attached to. I lifted the window up slowly, just high enough for my small frame to slip through. The night air was cold and when my feet found the solidity of the ground, my little heart began to beat uncontrollably. Which way was the right way?

I decided to walk towards the sound of honking horns and human voices. I don't remember ever being afraid of the dark. I had spent many nights alone in the darkness of the back room, this didn't feel any different. I remember walking along the curb, passing curious night goers (none of which decided to question a young kid out on his own, dressed in pajamas on a cold night). I was focused and determined.

As the night progressed, the elements became nearly unbearable. A light mist of rain began to descend from a blackened sky. Suddenly the cold night transcended into a freezing nightmare. The rain drops began to pour more readily from their place in the sky and, for a split second, I thought about turning around and returning to the warmth of my bed. The only problem was, I didn't remember the way back.

My legs were growing tired, but I dare not stop moving. I would flinch violently every time the sky lit up with lightening, cascading a blanket of light over the city that loomed before me. The buildings were massive and nearly touched the menacing clouds that drenched the Earth below. This moment reminded me of the night I had nearly beat a hole into Ms. Rosa's door. Ms. Rosa? I hadn't thought about her or Roberto in so long. I wondered what life was like for them.

I wandered into an area that is now known as Tent City in downtown Dallas.

"You lost?"

The voice in the darkness startled me. I was frozen with fear. I strained my eyes in an attempt to make out the silhouette of a lanky man emerging from one of the tents. My first instinct was to run, but he gently outstretched his hand.

"Don't run...I won't hurt you. Where's your mama?"

If I knew that, I wouldn't have been out there. I just stood and watched him slowly approach me with concerned eyes. His arm still out stretched, he beckoned for me to take his hand.

"The storm is only going to get worse. I have room in my tent for now. In the morning, we'll find your mama together."

For whatever reason, that I cannot logically explain here, I took his hand and followed him into his raggedy tent. It smelled, and it wasn't very big at all, but the approaching storm seemed less threatening within the flapping, loosely tied walls. I pulled my snack packs from my bag and began to indulge in them. I suppose I hadn't realized how hungry I had grown during my journey. The homeless man, who we will call Nat for the sake of the story, didn't question me again that night about the situation that he had found me in.

He spoke about the storm and how the rain beating against the plastic walls was music to his ears. His voice boomed within the small confinements of the tent. I just remember him discussing the intensity of the storm, but I'm sure he babbled on about other things. I never spoke a word, I just listened and eventually, when my belly was full, I leaned my head against his pillow and drifted off.

The next morning Nat woke me with a bowl of tomato soup that I'm sure he had procured from a nearby soup kitchen or church. I eagerly consumed the entire bowl. When I was finished, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and finally spoke.

"When can we look for my mama?"

"Well..." Nat started "Where did you see her last?"

"...she left me at the big building with the other children."

I'm sure Nat understood, at that moment, the seriousness of my situation. I remember we sat in his tent for a while without saying a word. He just rubbed his head confusingly as he made sense of my mess. I often thing about this night and how a man, with nothing, had given me the safety of his shelter and his portion of food. He had, in a matter of hours, shown me more kindness than my mother ever had.

Nat spent the entire day walking me around the city. Downtown, like today, was a busy place. No one took the time out to notice ole Nat and I rummaging around lazily, looking for my mother. I'm sure Nat knew we would never find her amongst this crowd, but he allowed me to search regardless. I am not sure if he spent this time with me out of pity or to lessen the sting of his own loneliness, but I trusted him.

We spent the night in his cramped tent again. That night, before I drifted, my mind wandered back to Mr. and Mrs. Lintman. Were they looking for me? They were such nice people, but they weren't the people that I wanted. The next morning Nat would betray me. I woke up to two police officers standing over me, a look of relief plastered on their face.

"I'm sorry buddy..." Nat said. "...but these streets are no place for you."

The police dragged me, kicking and screaming, to their squad car. They locked me in the backseat while Nat gave them a full report of our time together. The record of that report is below:

I was returned to Mr. and Mrs. Lintman and the window was nailed shut, despite my protest. I could feel the anger swelling within me yet again; this time Mr. and Mrs. Lintman would pay. I did not want to be a prisoner any longer, I know that now. This period of rebellion marked an important transition in my life; I wanted to be free. I tormented the quaint home that was once a peaceful pile of arranged bricks on a big lot. I broke dishes, smashed windows, punched holes into the walls. I would also attempt to runaway three more times before the Lintmans threw their hands up in defeat. Two weeks after I had run away, I was back at the group home; back at square one.

A Moment of Change

The workers at the group home were not particularly thrilled about my glorious return. My behavior had easily worsened, and I was now the bully that tormented the souls of others. If I saw something I wanted, I took it. My hands became tools that I used to change my day-to-day fate. Under my bed, I quickly accumulated a stash of stolen goods. If at all possible, I never left my bed. This was my new safe haven, regardless of the chaos that boiled, like a hardened egg, around me.

I closed my eyes: pretend like they don't exist. This was my first step towards true recovery; finding peace in the turbulent waves that crashed around me. Over the next few weeks, my violent tantrums slowly subsided. My outbursts were only minor, and I had learned to apologize, clean up after myself and even say thank you. It seemed as though I had made a complete turnaround. I was a thief and sometimes a bully, but I had, for the first time, found medium ground on which I and the workers could finally agree.

However, my case worker still struggled to get me to open up about my mother and my life before the group home. I would sit quietly during our sessions and find an object in the room on which I would fix my attention. She would ask me numerous questions, but her voice faded into the empty spaces around us. I would sometimes offer her subtle nods (I was more prone to answer "yes" or "no" questions), but she needed more from me, but I had, in a sense, given her all I could.

The days passed steadily but I barely noticed. I was lost in my own world. I would occasionally talk with the other children, but I spent most of my days alone. I enjoyed being outside, collecting rocks and flowers that I would later stuff into my pockets and sneak back into the building when recess was over. My collection, according to one report, was quite extensive. My case worker wrote that such collections usually were not allowed, but since it was such an effective part of my rehabilitation, it was permitted.

At some point, during my last few weeks at the group home, I must've mentioned Uncle T to my case worker. His name (or at least the nickname that I was forced to call him) was listed in her notes with randomly placed question marks around it.

"Who is Uncle T?" She probably asked me repeatedly.

I had said too much. I had revealed too much. I spoke his name and now, though this probably wasn't the reality of the situation, he would come back angrier and drunken. I would offer her no more on the subject, but she would take it upon herself to attempt to dig into my past with the bit of knowledge that I had reluctantly coughed up. I was the victim of intense sexual and mental abuse; this much was evident. However, my mother, for a short time, had disappeared into thin air. I do not know how long they attempted to bring her in for questioning (or if they even attempted to do so at all), but Uncle T would ultimately never pay for his crimes and neither would she.

I remember the day when things suddenly changed for me. An African America woman and a Caucasian man approached me while I was silently shifting through my newly collected rocks; my case worker stood slightly behind them. They approached me cautiously (obviously having read my file) and finally halted at the foot of my bed. The woman was tall, with short hair and sleepy eyes. The man was a bit shorter, but stout and wide, with downward sloping shoulders and a cocky grin. They had come to take me home.

There had been no warning this time and honestly, at first, I wasn't prepared to leave the world I had created for myself. I had finally found comfort in this type of hell, I was not prepared to tackle another. The woman, soon to become my foster mother, sat gently next to me and inquired about my collection. I attentively arranged the rocks in various piles based on size and color.

"These are my favorite rocks..." I pointed to a pile of shiny, smooth rocks that I had stolen from the wishing well in the group home's lobby.

"Why are these your favorite rocks?"

"Because they're smooth and nearly perfect."

"Nearly perfect?"

I nodded my head. "Because nothing is fully perfect..." I said in a delicate whisper. "...but some things are close."

"What about the rougher rocks?" she asked. "You don't think they're nearly perfect?"

I shook my head. "They have cracks and holes..."

"But you chose to add them to your collection anyways." She said. "Why is that?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "They're not nearly perfect but they're special too."

My foster mother (we'll call her Tammy), when I asked her about the first time we met, often shares the rock story with me. I pondered on it: perhaps I saw myself in those rougher stones. Time, with it's flinching hands, had chiseled away at my once smooth surface. I wasn't perfect (or nearly perfect), but my sharpened corners and sandy surface told a story of adventure and survival. I did not come from the sheltered confinements of a gentle indoor fountain. I had come from the outside world and I had weathered storms, survived floods and ended up in a garden on the other side of an immense stone wall. I was a rougher stone but somehow, I knew, even then, that I was special too.

My foster father (we'll call him Steve) hung back a bit during our first meeting. He is the type of individual that likes to fully assess a situation before diving into it. He would chime in every so often, but engagement was minimal. Eventually he showed himself out of the room and I spent the next three hours discussing my collection with Tammy.

The next morning my case worker and I discussed Tammy and Steve. I liked them, but they still did not compare to the safety of the world I had created beneath my bed. However, this did not matter because a few hours later my things were packed, and I was saying goodbye to the group home for the final time.

Tammy was a special education coordinator and dealt with difficult children for a living. She couldn't have children of her own, but her motherly senses were tingling. Tammy and Steve had been taking in foster children for a number of years, but they had been warned that I would potentially be a long-term resident until the system could straighten out my case.

Steve worked as a veterinarian at a small center that cared for domestic pets. He was a well-educated country conservative that had, against the wishes of his family, married his African American high school sweetheart. He was a hardened man that had come from an extremely religious family. He was straight-edged, stern and extremely controlling. Their car was a lot nicer than Uncle T's; this was the first thing I noticed.

The ride to my new home seemed longer than it actually was. We drove past buildings, trees, parks and stores. I never really got out much, so I was captivated by this new world that zoomed past my window. Steve, from the front seat, lowered my window and allowed me to stick my head outside of it. The breeze tickled my hair and caressed my warm cheeks. Maybe, I thought to myself as I pretended to fly, this hell would be different; better. When the car finally turned onto a residential street, I marveled at the size and elegant nature of the houses and lawns. There were so many beautiful rocks nestled into private gardens; I would come back for them all. The grass, like something from a story book, was green and evenly clipped. Children played along the sidewalks; some rollerblading and others playing basketball. It was a utopia; it was my home.

When I finally arrived at my new home, I quickly learned that I was not the only foster child that Tammy and Steve had taken. Joanna (6 years old at the time) had been in and out of the foster care system her entire life. She often spoke about her father, who was currently locked up due to a deal gone wrong.

"He's in jail now, but he's coming back for me when he's out." She'd say.

Joanna's mother had left her and her father shortly after giving birth. Joanna's father, while he wasn't perfect, cared deeply for her and raised her in the only manner he knew. He worked for a chop shop owned by a few buddies of his. His job: keep the inventory stocked. He stole cars and one day a heist had gone terribly wrong. It ended with two cops being hospitalized, a pedestrian being shot, and Joanna being taken away. She was a rough stone too, but she would, over time, become more than that; she was my little sister and my best friend.

When I walked through the front door for the first time, I stood shocked at the beautiful décor that hung from the ceilings and walls. Everything was beautiful, but the massive television that sat snug in the wooden entertainment center was, perhaps, my favorite.

"Do you have cartoons?" I asked.

"Of course, there are cartoons. What's your favorite cartoon buddy?" Steve asked.

"The roadrunner and superman."

"Okay. Well I'm sure we have that, but if we don't, we can go to the movie store and find them."

My room wasn't the biggest room in the house, but it was my own. My room was on the second floor. My mother informed me, some years later, that this was intentional due to my fleeing nature. Despite this, I loved my view. From here I could see the park, pond and trees that seemed to stretch for miles. It was peaceful.

"How long are you going to be here?" Joanna would ask. Most children never stayed for long here, but Joanna was also a long-term resident.

"Not long." I would say. "My mom's coming back for me one day too."

Hell Welcomes Me Back...Warmly

The days accumulated into weeks and the weeks became months. I had grown attached to Joanna and I was beginning to feel like I belonged here. My foster mother's side of the family accepted me with opened arms. My great-grandmother (Thelma) was the light of my life. She was older, but she yearned for adventure and mischief. My great-grandfather (James) was a course old man that had survived a shotgun wound to the stomach during a robbery at a convenience store he tended to in his younger days.

My foster father's side of the family was quite different. They lived in the country, roughly 40 minutes from our home. They flew a confederate flag in their front yard and my mother, rightly so, would never come into the house during visits. She always waited in the car. My grandmother on my foster father's side was mean and Time had not been kind to her in the aging department. She hated me the moment she saw me. I don't know why exactly, but, perhaps, it was because Tammy loved me.

As the years progressed, we never visited my foster father's side of the family very often. Therefore, I won't go into too much detail about their evil and vindictive ways. However, at some point in this story, I will return to briefly revisit and assess Steve's past. I had hoped that by poking and prodding into his childhood, I would find answers that would explain his character, his motives and his hell. I found a few answers, but many questions, to this day, remain unanswered.

The holiday seasons were swiftly approaching. I was eight and had not, up until that point in my life, had a proper Thanksgiving, Christmas or birthday party. This year would be different. The lights were strung up around both floors of the house. The plastic Christmas tree was adorned with white and blue doves, flickering lights and edible candy canes. The house smelled like sweet potatoes, baking chicken and baked-potato casserole.

During the holidays I would become acquainted with the rest of Tammy's extensive family. The parties were always intense and filled with lively music, dancing bodies and good eating. At the New Year's Eve party, I learned the electric slide dance for the first time. Before long, we were all dancing to the same tune. I was a puzzle piece and I fit perfectly here. I eased into my space and danced my pain away. Uncle T, and even my mother, became a distant memory that slowly started to fade as I built new ones.

Steve was an odd character. As the months progressed and I aged, our relationship became complicated. Two years had passed, I was now 10 years old and adjusted to my new life. Perhaps he felt confident in his actions. He had read my file. He knew my weaknesses and, to some extent, my past. He knew nothing of Uncle T, but his grin slowly began to resemble that of the monster I had nearly forgotten. He knew that I was capable of keeping secrets. Just when my life was beginning to make sense; just when I was beginning to heal and thrive, the devil found me dancing in a corner. Dancing and naïve, the fires of hell rained down on me. The warmth, at first, was welcoming.

What I am about to share here, is not something from a distant past, but of the present. These memories are of my own and the details are well remembered. Many members of my current family have warned me that there are certain boundaries that are not worth crossing. However, while this may be true in some circumstances, it was not true of my situation. There is a white line in the sand and Steve has stood for many years on the opposing side, daring me to cross it.

Dear family members that have chosen to read my story, I'm sorry to inform you that I have not honored your warnings. I have not wallowed silently in my despair. I have, after many years, found a voice that will expose the sins of a man that had sworn to protect me. I apologize if your views of him are tainted by words of honesty and truth, but I have learned that hell is a damning place. No, I take that back; hell is not a place. In the famous words of Neil Gaiman, "hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go."

All these years I had believed that each and every place that I had called home was a hell I had to learn to live in. The truth was, I carried hell in my soul in the form of suppressed anger and hatred. There was so much in my young life that I had not dealt with properly. I was going to therapy, growing and soaking up knowledge, making friends and learning to smile again. However, hell was there, waiting for the smallest flicker or spark, to ignite the fear that I had almost laid to rest. There he was, the devil himself.

It started with simple hair brushing. It seemed like an honest enough task. Steve loved brushing my hair, but as time progressed his strokes became harder; more demanding. He would force me to sit for hours while he brushed and stroked my hair. If I protested, he would strike me with the wooden brush against my temple. If I yelped out in pain, he'd strike me again.

"I don't want to hurt you..." He'd say. "...but you need to learn discipline. I'm here to teach you discipline."

He had five rules. He wrote them down on a sheet of paper that I was required to read aloud to him daily. I have, after much thought, provided a copy of his rules below. Why have I kept it after all these years? Perhaps, as a reminder that hell is only what I allow it to be. I have control now of what fire lingers in my charred soul. I now write my own story; tell my own truths.

Steve, if you choose to read this, I hope it brings you great discomfort in knowing that I am no longer afraid. My pride will no longer be used as a bargaining chip so that you may live freely, without consequences or shame. I have, for nearly 15 years, carried this hell with me. I have allowed it to thrive and consume me. I have been locked in this cage, watching as you dangle the keys to my freedom inches from my face. How does it feel Steve? How does it feel to soak up my words and to read my truth?

Rule 1: Read Your Bible. Everyday after school I was required to read certain sections of the bible and he would later quiz me. I was only 10, but I was quite the champion of sounding out words. However, I was terrible at understanding concepts. There's a lot about the bible that I did not understand, but I wasn't allowed to question it or doubt it. If I got any questions wrong, I would be verbally reprimanded and forced to start over.

Rule 2: Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness. I was rarely allowed to venture outside. Steve hated when I sweated or smelled. He hated when I skinned my knee or bruised my porcelain skin. I was to dress neatly, brush my teeth regularly, keep my shoes clean, tuck my shirt in and keep my head down. I was his doll.

Rule 3: Always Refer to me as Daddy. Up until this point, I had been referring to my new foster parents as Steve and Tammy. He hated this and said that it was disrespectful after all they had done for me. I was to refer to him as daddy; not dad or pa...only "daddy".

Rule 4: You Must Honor Your Father. I was to be by his side at all times during all social events. I would help him to put on his shoes and socks every morning before he went off to work. He would force me to lotion him after he showered, and he taught me how to shave his face with an electric razor.

Rule 5: You Must Follow All Rules and Orders That May Not Be Listed. I was to do what he said, when he said it, no questions asked.

Here I was, after so many years of knowing freedom, shriveling in a smaller prison with a bigger devil craving my innocence. Where was Tammy and the rest of my family during all of this? They were there, blinded by his kind smile and gentle words. On the outside, his sadistic schemed seemed like nothing more than an eager father wanting to spend more time with his son. He manipulated my therapist, Tammy, my sister and an entire community. The day I attempted to stand up for myself, he easily turned everyone against me. He portrayed me as a troubled youth that needed guidance.

When I was 11 years old his obsession worsened. He pulled me out of school and began homeschooling me. My day would start at 5 a.m. promptly with bible verses and hair brushing. At 9 a.m. he would go to work and I would watch my online videos and complete my required assignments. I had a tutor that would visit me twice a week for a few hours. He'd go over a few concepts, we'd tackle any concept problems and then he'd disappear as quickly as he had come. At around 1 p.m. Thelma, my great-grandmother, would bring me lunch and encourage me to take a break.

"You want to go to the park later after lunch?" she'd ask me one afternoon. I knew that I should have focused on finishing my assignment. Steve had, as he did every morning, warned me that there would be consequences if I had not fully completed my daily sections by the time he got home. I should have said no, but I couldn't resist the urge to venture beyond the threshold; to run my bare feet through the wet grass; to search through the mud and sand, looking for new rocks and plants to collect.

"Yes..." I smiled. "...I need new rocks!"

I remember the joy in my escape as I climbed into her green granny mobile (that's what we called it) and we headed to the park that I had, moments before, watched from my window. She sat at one of the picnic tables, book in hand, while I climbed the jungle gym. I remember how glorious it felt when I reached the very top. I looked out over the playground; I was king up here. The sun, peaking from behind shadowy clouds, shot its rays over my face. I squinted my eyes, but I didn't look away. I looked right into the light.

When I climbed down, I knew that my reign over the jungle gym was over. I walked over to my great-grandma just as she finished her last chapter. She smiled and held up a small, roughly shaped rocked.

"It's perfect." I said.

The day had slipped away from us. It was after 4 p.m., Steve would be home. When we walked into the house, there he was, sitting on the couch with his arms folded, focusing on the television. He smiled at Thelma and asked us how our day had been. My great-grandmother spoke lightly, but my own lips were glued shut. When my great-grandmother turned her back to hang her jacket on the coat rack, he glared at me. His entire demeanor changed. His eyes were cold, and his entire face seemed to frown. She turned back around, his smile magically reappeared. He stood up from the couch.

"Well..." He began. "I'm glad you got all that excess energy out of your system son, but it's time to hit the books."

He placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it lightly. Were his hands smaller or bigger than Uncle T's? I couldn't remember. I nodded my head and followed him up the stairs. I counted the steps on our way up, every step felt like a thousand tiny pins piercing my skin. He didn't say another word to me the entire way. Once we were in my room, he closed the door silently and heaved a sigh of frustration.

"I know you didn't finish your assignment. I only have five rules Lucas, but it seems like five is too big of a number for you. IS FIVE TOO BIG OF A NUMBER FOR YOU SON?"

I couldn't answer him. I could only stare as he backed me into a corner.

"1... 2... 3... 4... FUCKING 5! FIVE FUCKING RULES! I treat you well. I feed you and buy you nice clothes. I take care of you because I love you son. You are my perfect portrait, but you don't love me. You couldn't love me BECAUSE if you did...you would honor me."

"I...love...you."

He shook his head violently. "Your words mean nothing son. I feel like a failure as a father because I have told you that God will judge you based on actions...only actions. You'll have to prove how much you love me son and I will continue loving you." He unbuckled his belt, and the nightmare continued.

Dear reader, this is where I digress for a moment to dissect Steve's past and present. His family was from Kaufman Texas, but his parents were divorced for a short while, forcing him to travel between Dallas and Kaufman during occasional visits. One year, when his mother was ill, he was forced to move to Dallas with his father full time until she recovered. This is where his story had a hell of its own; a story Tammy (my foster mother) decided to share with me after years of asking.

His father was a practicing Nazi. He owned a white clansman costume that he would occasionally force Steve to wear. Everyday, Steve was forced to read the bible and practice the ways of the Nazi party. Every Sunday he spent the entire day in bible study and then church. His bed had to be made perfectly, his hair combed, his shoes clean and his clothes neat. In high school, Steve hated his father and would do everything in his power to defy him. This included falling in love with an African American woman.

When Steve's parents remarried, Steve's greatest secret came to light. His father, without hesitation, kicked him out of the house at 16, forcing him to move in with his eccentric uncle. Somehow, during all of this, Steve managed to remain a good student. His uncle was well educated, and all Steve had to do, while staying under his roof, was everything he was instructed to. Were there periods of sexual abuse during this time? He never revealed anything to my foster mother. He simply told her his surface story, and, in time, it made her fall for him even more. However, traces of his father still resided in him. He was manipulating and controlling. While in college, he and my mother would break up and get back together several times before he finally proposed, and they moved in together.

It was discovered later on, however, that my mother was not capable of having children. They decided, on a whim, to foster children until they were ready to seek out other possible options. This, eventually, would be the only way they brought children into the world together because my father's mania would eventually sever years of marriage and trust. I often ask my foster mother if she truly loved him. She sometimes hesitates before shaking her head no. I don't believe her because, even now, I can see the pain in her eyes when he occasionally stops by, begging for her forgiveness. For my sake, at least for now, she continues to turn him away.

He was a mad man with secrets of his own; tragedies he had not yet faced. I am not making excuses for him, nor have I, at this time, found the necessary strength to forgive him. I simply wish to understand...why? What road led to this destination? What joy did he and Uncle T find in ripping the innocence from a young boy that had already been through so much? What motivates the heinous acts of any pedophile? Uncle T and Steve were two different people (as far as education and things they owned), but they were also exactly alike. They were demons, summoned by a legacy of abuse and deeply unresolved issues.

Michael Cochran and Meghan Cole, authors of Inside the Mind of a Pedophile, stated that "Most people imagine pedophiles as ugly old men dressed in trench coats, hiding in the bushes, waiting to snatch young children off the street. However, recent television shows, such as To Catch a Predator, have exposed pedophiles as local neighbors, trusted friends, clergy, babysitters, teachers, and even family members."

The American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV) defines pedophilia as recurrent sexually arousing fantasies, impulsive desires, or behaviors involving sexual acts with a child and that occur over a period of at least six months. In most cases, the pedophile is at least sixteen years of age and at least five years older than the child. Those who suffer from pedophilia have a compulsion to abuse young children.

Cochran and Cole go on further to say that "The etiology of pedophilia can be attributed to both biological and environmental factors. Case studies indicate that cerebral dysfunction may be a contributing or dominant factor of pedophilia (Scott, 1984), including problems with self-control, extreme urges, and cognitive distortions. Many experts also believe that disorders for sexual preferences emerge from childhood experiences during critical periods in human development (DiChristina, 2009). In many cases, child sex abusers suffer from traumatic experiences during their childhood. More specifically, pedophiles tend to also have been molested as children. As children, they lacked the ability to control the situation. By sexually assaulting children, pedophiles attempt to re-live the trauma they experienced, and they learn how to master it. A complete role reversal gives them the upper hand and prevents them from being victimized. Overall, through the impact of cerebral dysfunction and traumatic development, the sexual urges and desires for children can become ingrained within a person's nervous system."

So, what does this say about my own future? What path am I, according to various statistical analysis and scientific beliefs, meant to follow? How would my childhood ultimately effect my ability to heal? Cochran and Cole believe that pedophiles, that had been victims of sexual assault as children, would grow up in search of an outlet to lessen the overall effects of these traumatic experiences. They seek out control in an effort to regain a sense of self-worth and value.

Let me first, before I progress further with this story, inform you that I have never, nor will I ever, follow in the foot steps of Uncle T and Steve. However, I have dealt with my traumatic childhood in a way which may, in various circumstances, be frowned upon. Steve, while he was a monster, instilled within me a useful skill; reading with understanding. I developed a love for books and knowledge. I soon began collecting books rather than rocks...they were more useful.

The years progressed, and Steve became completely unhinged. He had began drinking heavily, not going to work and his new group of friends were less than appealing. His aggression as well as his sickness intensified as he strutted around the house, everyone cowering in his wake. I was 12 years-old the night Steve came into my room and sat at the foot of my bed. I clenched my blanket and, as I did every night when he would visit, I prepared for the worst. He was drinking as always, the bottle clenched between his fingers like a cliff's ledge; he was hanging on for dear life.

"Do you want to know a secret?" He asked drunkenly.

I nodded my head, though I honestly did not care to know.

"I never wanted children." He said. "Your mother forced this whole thing on me really. I would have preferred a simple and quiet life. The only good part about taking you and the other one in, are the fat checks from the government every month. The fat checks are not enough though, but do not fret because my love for you is worth more than paper and coins."

He began rubbing my legs and he raised an eyebrow as my body tensed beneath the weight of his hand.

"Fear suits you well...." He said.

Bargaining Chips

Steve, as he had for years, dropped me off at my therapy appointment. He and my therapist were good friends and would often talk for long periods of time after my sessions. Steve of course, had chosen Dr. Fuller to be my full-time therapist. We had two sessions a week, each an hour a piece. I was now 14 years old.

"How's life at home?" he'd ask.

"Good..." I'd lie. I never spoke much during our sessions because I was afraid that my thoughts would find their way back to Steve's hungry ears.

"So, how's your reading going? Are you indulging in any particular book?"

"Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck..."

"Hmm...why that book?"

"It's an intimate tale of human nature and our need to have friends." I replied.

"That's an interesting theory. Doesn't someone die in the book? Isn't it quite gruesome?"

"Gruesome? No. Lennie does accidently kill Curly's wife and George, Lennie's closest companion, kills Lennie to spare him from a slow and agonizing death that the approaching mob would've dealt."

Dr. Fuller chuckled as he always did; a patronizing gesture. "...but it isn't gruesome?"

"It's a tale of friendship and sacrifice. What is so gruesome about that?"

Dr. Fuller scribbled across his note pad. The sound of the pen scratching across the paper seemed louder in his tiny office.

"I am going to suggest to your parents that you are allowed to attend public school again. I believe that the intensity of your current situation, the constant isolation, is having its own ramifications." he began. "It seemed as though you were getting better, but I feel like progress has halted so we need to try something different."

Public school? I wasn't sure how I felt about attending a public school. I had a few friends, but they weren't solid companions, like Lennie and George. I wouldn't, as George had done for Lennie, kill them to spare them. My demeanor was awkward, and I suddenly remembered how difficult it had been, many years ago, for me to fit in amongst my peers.

Steve was less than impressed with Dr. Fuller's recommendation, but he knew that if he refused it would all be documented and may raise eyebrows. Why would a father not want what a therapist had deemed to be the best for the child in question? It would be risky business to refuse.

My first day at Comstock middle school was a disaster. It was the middle of the semester; clans of friends, groups and trends had already been established. I dressed differently, walked differently, existed differently. My puzzle piece did not fit in here. Puberty and confusion do not mix well in a kettle of boiling chaos. My favorite place was a scarcely used stairwell at the back of the school building. I could sit here, undisturbed during lunch, and read my books.

"You're the new kid, right?" a voice asked. "I'm Sed."

I met Sed on a Thursday. I knew that it was a Thursday because Fridays were reserved for gym days. He would convince me, that next day (after our encounter), to skip gym and chill with him and a few of his friends behind the building, between the parking lots.

"You smoke weed?" he asked. "Try some."

I was hesitant, but I desired desperately to fit in, so I indulged. The day ended gloriously and Sed, in his own way, would become my George. He became my best friend and I would, in time, confine in him and he would save me. He would save me the way George had saved Lennie. He would free me from the prison I had come to know as home and show me a world that craved my presence.

Steve hated my newly found freedom. I was growing older, getting stronger and developing an uncanny amount of self-confidence. He was determined to keep me on my knees; determined to keep me in chains. One day, in an act of defiance, I invited Sed over. My foster mother was taken aback, I had never invited a friend over before. She knew Steve wouldn't be happy. He said that Joanna and I were not allowed to have friends over because you may not know a person's true motives.

"They're your friend one day and then the next, they are stabbing you in the back." He'd say. "Trust no one. They are never who they say they are!"

The irony of such words will always give me chills. Steve was a master at the type of work he indulged in. He manipulated the mind; tinkering with the tools that make us human. He was like Time in many ways. The space around me was a matrix that he had dominated, and I was trapped in a vortex that he and Time had created. Hell. The abuse, now that I have really scrutinized it, was so obvious, but he had pulled a veil over the eyes of everyone, including professionals.

How can someone know that someone else is in pain, if the evidence of that pain is buried so far beneath the surface that it makes, even itself, irrelevant? This time, the bruises were harder to see because the wounds were rotting on the inside. Mentally, I was still trapped in this game of cat and mouse. We were in a constant battle; me attempting to battle for freedom, and Steve attempting to keep his doll at home. I would defy him in any way possible and he, in turn, would threaten me, beat me and use me. The war raged on.

That day, Sed and I sat up in my room conversing about random girls at school. Sed, while a bit of a loner at times, was quite popular amongst certain crowds on campus. However, he had no idea that I was using him, in a sense, to defy another of Steve's precious rules. When I heard the front door open, I remember instantly regretting bringing Sed home, but it was too late. He was coming up the steps, I counted each thud as he ascended to my room; the door knob twisted, and the door flung open. He was already in the process of unbuttoning his shirt and had not anticipated that I would be having company. Sed, thankfully, was immune to his casual display as he recollected himself. It was too late, Sed had already saw the guilt and fear that had flashed, only for a second, across Steve's face. A week later, Sed would ask me about it and I would reveal to him the entire truth.

"Why can't you tell the police?" he asked.

I shrugged. "No one will believe me..."

"They would if you tried, but I get it. That type of story would travel fast."

"Yeah..." I said. "Everyone has their secrets I guess."

Sed, I remember, was relatively calm about the truth that I had readily revealed to him. He seemed to ponder on it. He mentioned reporting it to the police once, but he would never bring it up again because he knew I'd never speak of it to anyone else. We sat behind the school that day, passing a blunt and taking in the warmth of the sun.

"I have an idea..." he said. "Trap him. I'll let you borrow my camera and you can set it up somewhere in your room. You have to hide it really well. You can record him in the act and then use the tape to blackmail him. He won't have a choice but to leave you alone after that."

It was risky, and I was terrified, but Sed was insistent. He was my George and he was going to save me from a slow and painful death. I wish I had taken the time out to thank him more for all he had done for me. He, many years later, would die in a fiery car crash. My dear friend, living in the fast lane and daring to be bold and different. I am still close to his family and I make regular visits (or I at least try to).

The next day he brought me the camera and he spent the lunch break teaching me to use it. That night, as I hid the camera on my shelf between two books, my life would change forever. There was a single figurative rope tightening around my neck, as it had been doing for 14 years. Tonight, I would fight once more. One final push, the last bloody battle that would set me free. He came into my room as he did on most nights; he locked the door behind him. He forced me to read the rules as he began to undress. From the corner of my eyes, I could see the red light flashing on the camera as the entire scene was recorded. He told me, when he finished, how much he loved me; how everything he did was because he loved me. That night he slept in my room, the smell of his stench ingrained in my memory; another piece ready to be added to the puzzle.

The next day Sed helped me to download the video and copy it onto an SD card and flash drive.

"Threaten him. Let him know that you have the video on the flash drive. Tell him if he doesn't stop, you'll show the video to the police. If he agrees to stop, give him the flash drive." Sed said.

"But what if he doesn't stop?"

"Then we will still have the video on the SD card and you'll be able to do whatever you wish from that point..."

It was finally over. The nightmare had ended. When I told Steve about the video, a week later, he sat on my bed and cried. Tears? Why tears?

"This is how you would treat me after all I've done for you?" he asked. "I love you son. I am in love with you! How do I let you go?"

Love? It was his twisted way of attempting to draw me in. After all these years I realized, for the first time, just how weak and feeble he truly was.

"I fucking hate you..." was all I said. He was shocked, but he knew that it was over. I had won. I was free. He took the flash drive and promised to never touch me again and, at first, I was content. I was happy to simply forget the past and move forward, but some stories need to be told. My story needed to be told because I am not healed. My mind, while free, was a raging bull. With freedom, comes free range and I was a ricocheting bullet.

Steve would never touch me again, but the verbal abuse would continue. He would also lash out at my foster mother, threatening to divorce her and raising his hand as if he would strike her down. However, karma would soon visit him and bring him to his knees. He lost his veterinarian license due to illegal activities that he allowed to persist within the walls of his clinic. This led to more drinking, gambling and then, finally, financial ruin. We could no longer afford our luxurious home and we were forced to downgrade. Tammy and Steve used what money they had saved to buy a smaller house in a rougher part of town. Steve spent less time at the house and more time on the road. He was always gone, sometimes for weeks at a time. My foster mother began to crumble as the only man she had ever loved, slowly began to abandon her.

For a while, Joanna and I believed that we would be returned to the foster care system. Surely, it had not been Tammy's intention to raise two kids alone.

The Aftermath

I often ask myself, why did I allow it to go on for so long? Why didn't I stand up to Steve sooner? I could have, at any time, fought him off or screamed for help, but I didn't. I spent many nights blaming myself; disgusted with my body, my hair, my skin. My biological mother would often, during these times, creep into my mind. I was reminded of the way she said she loved me, the same desperate tone as Steve, but I know now, it wasn't a healthy love. It was an obsession; perhaps, an escape from their own hell.

"A child that's being abused by its parents doesn't stop loving its parents, it stops loving itself."

-Shahida Arabi

I hated Steve and I resented my mother, but there was no one that I hated more than myself. I began going through phases at a rapidly unhealthy pace. I refused to go to Dr. Fuller and I would rebel by falling into a life of drugs, sex and, to my own surprise, fatherhood.

I remember the first day I laid eyes on her. She was beautiful and much older. We were at Sed's older brother's party and we had been instructed to stay in the backroom, but I had worn my good vest and I was ready to party. After building up the confidence to leave the room, Sed and I blended into the crowd of older adults, drinking and smoking. I remember the house smelled like vomit and weed, the lights were low, and the music was booming. She was sitting alone on the couch, obviously attempting to keep her last beer down. I sat next to her, she knew I was younger, but she had no clue how much younger I truly was. We talked for a while and, as I had intended it to, the conversation veered to sex. The only thing I knew about sex was what I had read in books, but it was enough to convince her that I knew exactly what I was doing. She would be my first....and it literally lasted about 30 seconds (Not my proudest moment). We wouldn't speak again for another eight to nine months.

During those months, I indulged in a world of sex and drugs. I had, finally, found a way to combat the sickness that was consuming me as I attempted to heal. It was, I discovered, easier to bury the pain than to admit that it still hurt; to admit that every time Steve said my name or looked my way, I cringed uncomfortably as the memories swarmed to the surface. How did he still have so much control?

Women. So many women. I needed them. When I was with her (and "her" could've been anybody), I felt secure. She would tell me how handsome and alluring I was; things I didn't believe, but things I needed to hear. It had become a game to me. Find a girl in the crowd, court her, use her and then cut her loose. I had, in my own way, become a monster. Breaking hearts was easier than pretending and, at their expense, I would find a way to thrive again.

Do I regret the way I treated these women? Perhaps, but I cannot, at this time, say that I have remorse for every single one of them. Some were older women that craved younger flesh; predators of a different nature. Her name was Elizabeth (Beth for short) and her accent told me that she was from somewhere exotic, a flavor I had not yet tasted. She was much older than me, by 20 years. I was 14 and she was 34. She was from overseas and her husband was in the business of selling foreign cars and properties. She was lost in the big city, and I had found her.

I offered her my assistance without hesitation. I walked her to the Dallas City Hall building and even waited around for her until she had finished handling her business. My intentions were to help her back to her hotel and, perhaps, get invited inside as a thank you. She had other plans. She took me to a sandwich shop nearby and we sat and talked for hours. I was young, but I could read her like a book; she was testing the water. She asked about my age, I lied and said I was 18. She didn't believe me, but she played along.

Her hair was a deep brown with teasing bits of blonde highlights peaking through various strands. She was tall, her jawbone and nose were defined, her eyes were a soft hazel. She was beautiful, and I wanted her, but she was nothing like the girls I had been with before. She was educated, cautious and curious; she had something to lose and she wouldn't risk it all for nothing.

She wouldn't invite me to her hotel room that day, but she would give me her phone number and promised that we would see each other again. Beth, in a sense, was no different from my Uncle T or Steve. However, the sickness that dwelled within her was irresistible, and she knew it. Many years would past before she openly admitted that she regretted maintaining our illegal relationship for so long. The constant traveling, time away from her children and the cost to maintain my loyalty had cost her ten years of marriage and the respect of her children. There was a massive web of lies and mixed emotions wedged between the lives we lived apart and the hidden life we were making together.

We texted nonstop; we talked about everything and nothing. I was slowly winning her over, gaining her trust and capturing her heart, but, in a way, she was doing the same to me. The biggest mistake that we both made was allowing our feelings to cloud our judgement; we became careless as our hunger to be near each other intensified. She'd grab her passport, hop on a flight and moments after she landed, we were in bed together. We were "playing house", but this fantasy life was not one that we could live forever, and we knew this.

When her husband found out that she was sending envelopes of cash to an American address, he immediately hired a private investigator. We were bold and careless and believed we had mastered the art of secrecy. However, her husband was an intricate specimen and a major complication in the progression of our relationship. He loved her because no one would go to the extent that he did, if love wasn't a prominent factor.

However, she was my infatuation; my obsession that settled the hell that churned like a furnace in my soul. I've found it difficult to classify her as a criminal, but due to the nature of our relationship...how can I not? I was vulnerable, and she knew it, but I allowed her scent to seep into the deepest realms of my cognizance. I was completely and totally aware of her existence and, during our time together, I simply wanted to exist alongside her.

It was during an intense and passionate moment of "existing", when the word fell from my mouth laxly. A single word, shrouded in desolation and loneliness. At first, I hadn't realized that I had said it. I was caught up in the moment, building, yet, another memory. She stopped me and asked me to whisper the word again. Only then, once I was fully aware of all else again, did I realize what I had said.

I whispered it again. "Mama..."

That night, I remember, was unlike any other. She cradled me like a wounded child, nursing me in her arms. Our time together took on a new meaning as these moments accentuated our deepening connection. I did not love her, but I craved the skin-to-skin contact. I craved the intimate reassurance that existed in the way she touched me and allowed me to return the favor. She was the predator, but she gave me the power...when I wanted it.

Somedays I longed to be the captain of the ship; guiding the vessel over tremendous waves and braving turbulent storms. However, there were some days when I just wanted to sit there and feel her love wash over me. Her warmth was like that of a flame in a frigid world. I allowed her to fall ever deeper for me, while the gap in my heart slowly started to fill. Then, just as suddenly as my life had changed, it transformed again.

I walked through the front door of my home, unaware of what fate had in store for me. The moment I walked into the house, I first saw my foster mother sitting on the edge of the couch, her head resting heavily in her hands. Next to her, Steve leaned against the back of the sofa, his eyes glazed over and his face expressionless. I didn't recognize the woman that sat across from them; I could only see the back of her head. She turned and faced me.

Though it had been months, I recognized her almost immediately as the woman from the party; except she was a bit sobered up. She stood up on impulse as I approached and her belly, blooming with life, bulged from beneath her jacket.

"Do you know this woman?" Tammy asked.

I nodded my head. "Yeah. She's a friend of Sed's brother. I met her once at his house..." My voice was shaking.

My dad huffed loudly. "I told you that Sed kid was no good. Just brought trouble into our lives! He's influencing this little shit in the worst way possible!"

"I don't understand what's going on..." I said.

"This young lady..." Tammy began "...says that you two engaged in adult activities and now she's pregnant with your..." She couldn't finish the sentence. The words were lodged in her throat.

That day was a day of confessions and realizations. Callie, the woman from the party, was 8 months pregnant. She'd been asking around for me for months since she found out. To this day, I still do not know who gave her my address, but she would make it a habit to stop by often, building a relationship with Tammy. Tammy wasn't exactly sure about how to ground me, but she implemented rules meant to contain me. No staying out late without a phone call, no drinking, smoking or missing school...the usual.

However, I was determined to ignore the progressing situation that continued to impede my life of comfort. Steve, I believe, took it harder than Tammy. He refused to be in the same room with me or to even eat at the dinner table when I did join my family for supper. He seemed reclusive, sad even. My great-grandmother, however, was supportive and a bit excited. I did not share her joy. I was 14, nearly 15 at this point, and I wasn't mentally prepared to be a father. If I am to be completely honest, I had hoped that Callie would get an abortion or lose the baby before he could make it into the world.

He? When she told me that it was a boy, my heart sank farther. Looking at the world around me...how could I bring a baby boy into this turmoil? How could I bring a child into this house and raise it alongside monstrous memories and the devil himself? What type of child deserved to be born into a living nightmare?

Callie and I sat down and spoke one Saturday afternoon. She was older, but she also wasn't prepared to raise a child. She carried her own hell, had her own story of misery and distrust, that prevented her from appreciating the life growing in her belly. We both decided that day, that we would find a loving family to take in our son. It seemed like the only logical decision at the time. When I went to my great-grandmother, seeking wisdom and support, she was less than impressed with my sporadic decision.

"Your flesh and blood..." she'd say. "You've always questioned why your own biological parents never loved you enough to provide that security. I suppose now you are continuing the tradition?"

I shrugged. "I don't think he'll care as long as he's living decently."

"Decently?" She raised an eyebrow. Her eyes seemed to carry this steely coldness that would make me shiver when our gazes met. "You should want more for your son. You should want more for yourself. Someday he'll grow up and wonder who you are and where he came from. He'll wonder why you never stepped up; why you never loved him enough to at least try. At the end of the day, the decision is yours; just make sure that whatever you choose to do, you can live with it."

Could I live knowing I had abandoned my son the way my mother had abandoned me? Would he spend nights waiting for an answer, a truth, a savior? Would he be forced to believe only in fictional heroes because he'd never know the strength of a father or the love of a mother? What if this new family had monsters of their own...people like Steve? I knew, in that moment, that only I could protect him.

Callie was reluctant, but we both decided to allow my foster mother to legally foster our son until we were ready to be parents. The day Conner, my son, came into this world I was sitting in AP Biology, more focused than I had ever been. My son, in a lot of ways, changed me; he saved me. The first time I held him, feeling his little body rocking in my arms, was another piece of the puzzle that would fall effortlessly into its place. How could something so tiny save another's life?

I immediately got a part time job as a ranch hand, getting paid under the table to look after the horses, cattle and crops. I would work every weekend and a few days after school. I was exhausted. I'd come home to Conner screaming feverishly as Tammy worked tirelessly to calm him. Every other Friday, I'd hand my paychecks over to my foster mother. I stopped hanging out with my friends, even Sed, but he understood.

Word traveled quickly throughout my high school as news about my newborn baby boy began to circulate. I felt like a celebrity. I suppose, when high school girls face the same tribulations, they aren't met with such gestures of support and reassurance. Even one of my teachers brought a blanket and box of diapers when she heard about the little bundle of joy. This attention, without complaint from myself, reeled in the attention of older women. I was working, going to school and excelling; these were favorable traits that made me desirable. The game, I had become so use to playing, became even easier as my options expanded.

I cannot even remember all of their names or even their faces. Some women were meant only for the moment, while others, like Beth, I clung to for years. Beth wasn't particularly excited to hear about my son, but she loved me, so she contributed generous amounts of money towards his upbringing. She'd buy him diapers, expensive clothing, shoes, food, toys...whatever he needed. One day my mother questioned me about the lavish gifts; I just shrugged my shoulders: "I have friends in high places."

Beth would make another trip to the United States to meet my son in person. We spent that entire weekend together, playing house with my growing boy. I secretly enjoyed the simplicity of waking up to a familiar face, cooking breakfast and sitting down to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Family life; it seemed like the type of stability I would never truly have. Beth would hold Conner and he'd laugh, his toothless grin wide with amusement. In that moment, I realized how much I craved her presence. Her motherly touch, dominant nature and reassuring grasp were water to parched lips. I didn't want her to leave, but I knew she would.

A few weeks after her departure, my life transformed again. The private investigator that Beth's husband had hired, had made a breakthrough. Using a fake facebook profile, he blended in amongst my family and friends. Beth had a second facebook that we used to communicate more efficiently. She would, on occasions, comment on my post or like my pictures; our first mistake. Our second mistake (perhaps the biggest) was a picture I had posted of us laying in bed nearly naked. She was infuriated and wanted me to delete it, but I refused. Even though I had other women to turn to during the long periods of time that Beth and I were apart, I longed for her and I didn't understand why our relationship had to remain a secret.

The private investigator would immediately report this back to Beth's husband, but he wouldn't react right away. Over the next few months his private investigator would dig into my past and family life. He had Tammy's and Steve's information. He knew I was a minor, where I worked and who my friends were. He knew where I went to school, where I grocery shopped and my email addresses. He was building a case against her.

Beth came to visit again towards the end of that year. We were lying in bed together when her phone went off repeatedly. She ignored it and rolled over, but it continued to vibrate and ding annoyingly. She sat up and decided to indulge in the aggressive notifications; they were from her husband.

"I know where you are and that you're with him."

This simple message sent her into a full-blown panic. She jumped out of bed and began to get dressed. She stumbled over to her suitcase and began to clumsily stuff her clothes inside. She was leaving...again.

"Don't go..." I begged.

"He knows. I should have never done this with you!"

She seemed angry. Her voice was high pitched with an accusatory tone, as though it had been me all along ruining her life. When we were together, she was risking it all; when we were together, I felt as though I had it all. It was obvious from the start that we could never last forever; it was impossible even. As she packed to leave, running home to the man she really loved, I sat and waited for the shock to pass.

"I have a husband Lucas..." she said as she picked up her things. "...and we have children of our own. I should not have come back here. This was a big mistake."

A mistake? Spilling a glass of red wine on white carpet is a mistake. Tripping and dropping a triple layered wedding cake on someone's big day is a mistake. Drinking too much vodka and throwing up in your best mate's car is a mistake. Humans are not mistakes. Deliberately buying a plane ticket and flying half way across the world is not a mistake. I was not a mistake, but she would never see it that way.

At that moment, my own phone began to ring uncontrollably. I picked it up nonchalantly. My foster mother's voice came booming from the other end.

"GET HOME NOW!"

She knew. Beth's husband and the private investigator had promptly contacted her seeking restitution for the thousands of dollars Beth had given me. Tammy refused but threatened to press charges against his wife for statutory rape. They both decided to simply leave the conversation where it was, but Beth and I had some explaining to do.

"She's literally old enough to be your mother!" Tammy was furious.

She had a copy of the picture that I had posted on my facebook; the investigator had emailed it to her and Steve. Steve was enjoying the tongue lashing I was receiving. He stood to one side of the room, not really participating, but smirking and shaking his head occasionally as though he weren't the biggest monster in the room.

"You're going back to therapy...." Tammy finally said. "It was obviously a mistake to let you start public school. You're out of control!"

My head snapped up. "I'm not doing therapy."

"You will go to therapy or I will report your little friend to the police, and she'll be a registered sex offender for the rest of her miserable life."

A part of me knew that it would be a never-ending nightmare if Tammy reported Beth. I had already ruined her marriage; the least I could do was to not ruin her life. I decided to go to therapy, but only if I could get a new therapist; Tammy agreed. Dr. Sadler was a broad fellow that obviously spoke English as a second language. However, he was insightful and unbiased. To be honest, I was a bit relieved the day Steve approached Dr. Sadler in an attempt to muscle information out of him:

"I'm sorry sir." Dr. Sadler said. "I cannot violate the confidentiality of my patient, regardless of relationship."

Steve seemed frustrated. He no longer had his broad fingers clenched around my throat. In Dr. Sadler's office, I spoke freely and often. It was, in a way, an intense relief. There were moments when I almost revealed some of my darker secrets, but I could never find the words to describe the sickness I had experienced without feeling ashamed.

"So, you believe the relationship between you and this woman was alright?" Dr. Sadler asked.

"I was happy. What's not alright about that?"

"Well, it's against the law." He said. "You're a minor and she's an adult. Laws exist for a reason."

"Yeah but what should a person do when a law interferes with their happiness?" I asked.

"Laws must be followed, regardless of what they interfere with."

"Y'know...there use to be a law that banned people from chewing gum in public." I noted the bit of random knowledge that I had read in a "Book of Facts" that I had purchased not long ago.

"And?"

"And some laws are dumb." I snapped.

"Well..." Dr Sadler removed his glasses the way all therapists nonchalantly do when they have reached a peak moment. "Let's put the law matter to the side. Why else do you think this woman would engage in sexual relations with a 15-year-old boy? You have no job, no assets, you're dependent on your parents...why would she risk her entire life to have sex with a child?"

I shrugged. "Why would anyone risk having sex with children? Besides, I consented. It's not like she raped me."

"Rape is loosely defined when it comes to these matters. However, look at it from a different perspective. You have a young son correct? Imagine in a few years when he's old enough to understand sex. What if he decides to have sex with a woman 20 years older? Would your viewpoint change then?"

I wouldn't answer his question then, but I do know the answer to such a question now. Yes, my viewpoint would change. A year or so ago, I attempted to reach out to Beth to ask her why she had pursued me at such a young age. She was not very eager to answer my question. Her husband had recently died. They separated shortly after the dramatic series of text messages and her lengthy return home. He had left her the house, a car and a single credit card to cover expenses. He then moved in with his mother until he could work out his own situation.

However, he would never get the opportunity to rise from the situation. Over the years he unknowingly developed a fatal heart condition. His mother walked into his room one afternoon. He was bloated, purple and not moving; he had died in his sleep. I remember listening to Beth cry over the phone as she confessed that she regretted cheating on him and that their children resented her for it.

"I never got to set things right with him..." she cried. "...and now I never will."

She loved him and, many years later, I am ashamed to admit that I was envious of the admiration she delineated for this man that wasn't me. I was angry, but I bit my tongue and simply pushed the conversation away from him. In my mind, she was still mine, though our story had ended years ago. After some effort, she finally revealed to me why she felt the need to connect with me. I screenshot her response and saved it in my drop box (for this very purpose). I have included that response below:

I admit, I could've been more sympathetic towards her situation, but the monster in me would not allow my heart to feel any commiseration. She had used me. I knew that it must've been karma paying me a visit and then laughing in my face as it carried my dignity over its shoulder. I had broken so many hearts and, in the process, had my own broken...but life goes on.

Life Goes On

The years passed and the number of women I entertained accumulated. My obsession had become an addiction that slowly began to destroy me. Callie and I became distant and soon our relationship erupted into intense court battles for custody of our son. Conner was a bit older at this point, but his life was filled with various degrees of instability. Callie had turned to drugs and had intense mental health issues that threatened her ability to provide the fundamental care our son needed. The judge awarded my foster mother with full custody until I turned 18 and could prove to the court that I was capable of providing a fulfilling life for a child.

I decided that working as a ranch hand was beneath me and I craved more for my future. I decided to start looking at different colleges and I made frequent visits during my senior year of high school. Steve was still around occasionally, reminding me that a ranch hand was probably the best line of work someone in my position could handle. However, he and Tammy had grown apart, but refused to admit that their relationship was ultimately failing. They put on a façade for the neighborhood and family members. They would sometimes parade around in public, arm in arm. Then when they'd get home, it seemed as though they'd rush to the bathroom in a hurried attempt to rid themselves of each other's filth. Love no longer lived here or so it seemed.

Tammy suggested that I simply get a job straight out of high school and focus on saving my money so I could find an apartment. My therapist also believed that this was the correct plan of action considering my track record.

"College is a hefty responsibility." He'd say. "...but your son is the heftiest of all. You would ultimately have to make a decision."

"I feel like there are people my age that go to school, work and take care of their children. It'd be difficult but not impossible."

"Yes, but how many of these people are you? You compare yourself to others quite often, but you are you and no one else. Do you actually believe you are capable of maintaining such a rigorous schedule for the next 4 to 5 years?" He asked.

His question seemed rhetorical and at the time I was honestly beginning to believe that college life was nothing more than a pipe dream. Life is not meant to be fair; it is meant to be experienced. I had, up until this point, experienced a great deal.

I was 17 going on 18 when I met Jada. She would prove to be nearly identical to Steve in the realm of monstrous acts. However, she was beautiful with long hair, dark eyes and a demanding attitude. She was knowledgeable, read often and enjoyed frequenting museums and zoological parks. At first, she seemed like the permanent escape my broken mind needed. Living with Steve had become unbearable. Tammy refused to believe that his pattern of psychological abuse was tearing the house apart. Joanna, my sister, moved out immediately on her 18th birthday. Her and her boyfriend packed a few essential belongings, climbed into his car and left Texas behind. She refuses, to this day, to speak with Tammy or Steve; though her and I speak occasionally.

Did Steve also abuse her? If he did, she would never reveal the truth to me. The pain had already consumed her and instead of facing it, she ran; she would never stop running. We only ever spoke about Steve's sadistic ways once, the night before she ran away.

"Why do you have to leave?" I asked her.

"I can't stay in this house." She replied. "You shouldn't stay here either. This place is poisonous. The entire system is toxic."

"Where will you go?"

She shrugged. "Jared has family in New Mexico, so we were thinking about heading out that way."

It would be years before I saw her again, but a part of me knew she was right. Steve had become more violent as he indulged in the fire water that gave him the illusion of power. When he did come home, he'd parade angrily around the house, kicking over tables and breaking dishes. The walls were littered with fist sized holes that emphasized his vexing and unsettling nature. He hated me and he reminded me of this often.

"You think you're better than me with all of your books and gadgets?" He asked me drunkenly one night.

"I don't..."

"THAT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT!" He said. "I know what you are, and you know what you are. A...good...little...boy..."

I looked up from my book just as Tammy slowly came from around the corner. She stopped and looked at Steve before turning and heading to the kitchen. She never said a word about the way he spoke to me or the way in which he stood over me half dressed. She simply turned and chose to ignore the truth that had unfolded in front of her. Many years later her and I would sit in the living room shrouded in angst as she struggled to find the words to apologize for that evening.

"I should have done more to save you." Was all she'd say.

Joanna had been right; this house was no longer a home. The walls had eyes that knew of the secrets buried beneath the floor boards. The front door simply existed as a gateway to a darker truth; a world that harbored hells and held them there to thrive. The air carried a stench heavy with filth and a murky regret. Jada, an older woman that I had met simply by chance, would be my escape.

When I first met Jada, she was wearing a long dress that hugged her curves and heels that pierced the Earth when she walked. She was a voluptuous woman; full figured and fierce. She told me she worked for Cîroc as a party planner and would often host mega parties with celebrities and wealthy business men. I was young, naïve and desperate...so I never questioned the lifestyle she supposedly lived. She had five children that lived occasionally with her parents and a small home that was quaint in stature. We were heavily involved with one another for only a few weeks before she asked me to move in with my son. I didn't hesitate to pack my bags and leave Steve's world behind.

I decided, for the first time in my life, to plunge into a monogamous relationship. Monogamy is often considered the "norm" within our narrow-minded society. However, there are many religious based beliefs that encourage polygamy amongst humans. However, I am not here to preach religious text for I am a man of science. I have learned that if it can be found in nature then it is a natural thing. Both monogamy and polyamory occur frequently in nature amongst species of various degrees of intelligence. This list includes dolphins, whales, lions, cheetahs, wolves and (our closest living relatives) bonobos.

I wish that I had learned earlier on in life that it is okay to crave the attention of more than a single woman. I felt as though my urge to acquire this attention rendered me incapable of true love and made me a monster. However, despite these urges, I never cheated on Jada. I allowed her to have my heart, body and mind without limit and ultimately, she would consume me entirely.

I enrolled into college and our life together began. In the beginning, everything seemed picture perfect. Yes, there were six children in the house, but we made it work with the constant support and guidance of her family. Every so often Jada would have to leave town to handle business matters associated with her line of work. I would be left alone to tend to the house, chores, children and my school work. I felt like we were a functioning support system and for a short period, stability existed. Her children had a father and my son had a mother.

However, she became obsessed with her work and would travel indiscriminately and without warning. She'd be gone for weeks at a time and the responsibilities became overwhelming as laundry, dishes and trash began to pile up. I began missing classes and homework assignments. The children had become my main priority, but their demands were exceedingly difficult to meet. I was drowning in the constant smell of shitty diapers, spoiled milk, molding garbage and screaming babies. I was in over my head; I begged her to come home and mother her children. Her parents finally stepped in; they knew of their daughter's peculiar behavior but warned me little of it. They would take her five kids during the week and I would look after them during the weekends and holidays when Jada was away on business.

Our relationship became an illusion. We barely saw one another and when we did, the spark was no longer there. I would often feel the urge to venture off from the sanctity of monogamy and entertain the lustful world that dared me to come nearer. However, despite our troubles, I believed that I loved her, so I fought all urges to betray her. One night, while laying in bed alone, I received a text message from someone I had long ago forgotten; Beth. Almost immediately the memories resurfaced, and I struggled to reply to her simple "hi, it's Beth".

"What do you want?" I asked. I felt like the question came more from a place of hurt than disrespect. She had chosen to save her marriage and had simply left me to carry my hell alone. Though her marriage should have been her priority from the beginning, her actions had left me emotionally mangled...and now she had returned.

"Him and I have separated." She said. "You're older now, so I thought it'd be safe to reach out to you again. I've missed you and our time together."

"That was years ago. I've moved on now."

"Ah, I see. Are you happy?" she asked.

"Yes." I lied.

"Well, perhaps we could be friends then?" she asked. "I would like to know what you have been up to in life. It doesn't have to go much deeper than that."

I should have turned her away that day, but I didn't, and I craved the attention. Beth no longer had to hide me from her family, and we could speak freely on most days. Jada was always away so, for the first time, Beth and I could acknowledge each other's existence openly. However, the conversations stayed friendly and I never allowed them to venture beyond simple jargon and harmless jokes. Jada, at the time, knew very little of Beth; I didn't open up to her very often. When she did find out about Beth, it was a messy altercation that landed me in the hospital with lacerations on my upper back, neck and behind my ear. When the doctors questioned me about my grotesque injuries, I simply lied and said it had been the result of a swift and violent altercation with a drunken stranger.

I was given an ultimatum and Jada would not allow me to simply cut Beth off. Jada, as I mentioned before, possessed a dominant attitude. She was often reckless and unpredictable when she became angry. She was wild in her chaotic nature and wanted Beth to suffer simply for existing.

"Pack up your shit and leave!" She ordered.

"I can't go back to that house Jada. You know that."

"Then you will call that bitch and tell her that you want her to kill herself and that you never cared for her."

The conversations I had with Beth had been innocent, but Jada refused to believe that our motives carried the same modesty. I thought about packing my things, calling Tammy and begging her to allow Conner and I to spend a few weeks there until I could find us a decent place, but I knew Steve wouldn't allow it. He had gotten rid of me and he could finally live peacefully without facing the sickness he had created. We had no where else to go, so I picked up the phone, called Beth and did as I was instructed.

My words cut through her and in her pleas, I could hear the pain seeping into the wounds I had created. These words would be the foulest I had ever spoken to another human being. I truly felt like a monster during this period in my life. As I reflect on this moment I realize, I have often allowed the actions of others to influence my own nature. I was easily influenced by toxic energy because this type of energy, for as long as I could remember, made up the bulk of my character. However, I am not making excuses for myself. I was fully aware of every decision that I made that resulted in the emotional abuse of another person. Perhaps, I wasn't the same type of monster as Uncle T or Steve, but I was monstrous, nonetheless.

My relationship with Jada became a tangled mess of constant physical, mental and emotional abuse. I allowed her to berate me because I felt as though it was deserved. I had maintained a secret friendship with Beth behind her back and these were the consequences of my actions. She'd beat me, choke me and insult me in an attempt to tame her own hell. I do not blame her now because I fully understand the burden of fighting one's demons silently; without emotional or professional support. Mental illnesses are, perhaps, the most understudied illnesses in the world.

When I examine Jada from afar, I now see that she struggled with unresolved issues that prompted mental instability. Her family did not believe in therapists or psychological issues capable of plaguing the mind. Her brother once told me that when they were children Jada was known to torture the family pets. She'd reach into the fish bowl, remove the goldfish with her bare hand, lay it on a smooth surface and then watch it struggle and gasp frantically. She'd return the fish to it's bowl just before death consumed it, only to repeat the torturous act until she finally decided to end the fish's life. There was also a time when she lit the tip of Brewster's (the family's dog) tail on fire. Her brother recalled Brewster's panicked yelp as he ripped through the living room, his tail flying like a torch behind him. When the flame was finally smothered, Jada sat there silently, her tiny fingers gripping a lighter she had snatched from her mother's purse.

Jada suffered in silence while her family chose to ignore the red flags. They allowed their daughter to be a detached human that had, over time, mastered the science of manipulation. She could convince anyone of anything, including herself.

"I want to have a baby." She'd tell me.

We didn't need a baby. We were struggling to find the time for the children we already had. However, now I understand her reasoning for wanting another child; it was how she coped. Whenever she felt as though her spotlight was dimming, she'd have a child. A child meant more attention, baby showers, gifts, Facebook photos and gender reveal parties. A child meant that I would never be able to leave her, at least not entirely. Our relationship was becoming an empty shell and she knew this. The condoms began disappearing from the top drawer and she demanded unprotected sex more often. Her motives were obvious.

That same year I received a call from an old friend that I had, over the months, grown apart from. Her name was Kate. Kate and I had been somewhat close prior to my relationship with Jada. However, on a heated night, after her boyfriend broke her heart for the last time, she confined in me. We sat and spoke about life and how we wished our own lives had been different. The night ended with empty champagne bottles, a few crushed Xanax and us using sex to mask our true emotions. We only ever did it that one time, but one time is all it takes. Shortly afterwards, my daughter, Erin Elise, would be born.

When Jada found out about Erin, her tempered flared beyond control. She'd proceed to smash every glass dish in the house. She'd use a box cutter to rip the sofa to shreds and threaten my life. She was completely unhinged, erratic and broken hearted.

"I wanted a baby..." she'd say. "You won't give me a baby, but you keep giving other bitches babies!"

Jada was even more devastated when I decided to be in Erin's life; this meant rebuilding a relationship with Kate so that co-parenting was possible. Jada was desperate to have another baby, as she felt the spotlight shifting to this new bundle of joy that looked exactly like me. There was no denying that Erin was my child. Her big, blue eyes bulged from her head and her pointed nose turned gradually upwards, just like my own; she was my flesh and blood. Jada spent many nights begging me to abandon my child, giving me ultimatums that I refused to indulge in. She would threaten to leave or kick me out, but she never did. I eventually learned that her threats were nothing more than empty attempts to control me. I had, for the moment, figured her out.

One night, a year or so after Erin's birth, we were sitting at the dinner table with the children. We barely looked across the table at one another; our relationship had dwindled down to nothing more than caring for the children and sleeping in the same bed. We no longer had sex, conversed or planned trips. I was simply finishing up my education and working; she was simply traveling for work and pretending as though her children didn't exist. She had grown cold in her attempt to heal and it was evident.

Whenever her eldest daughter would seek her attention, Jada would simply brush her off and turn her attention to her phone. She became obsessed with posting vulgar pictures on Instagram, building quite the following in the process. She never posted pictures of the kids or her family, just semi-nude pictures that teased the imagination. She would constantly demand validation in the form of "likes" and "comments". I knew I was failing as a man, as her man. I had simply given up and allowed the spark to fade. I complained about the things she did, but I never did anything to offer her the support and comfort that she required as a damaged woman. One day, I decided, I would change that.

My plan was simple: get off from work early, buy flowers, surprise her at home and take her out for a romantic afternoon. I remember pulling up into our driveway, an unfamiliar car was parked along the curb side; a red charger. I believe now, when I re-examine the situation, that I knew what I would find when I walked through the front door. I grabbed my pistol from my glove compartment, convinced, then, that she could possibly be in danger, rather than cheating. Maybe, I thought, someone broke in and didn't realize she was home and was currently holding her hostage. Maybe, I thought, it was her crazy ex-boyfriend, demanding to see his children. I wanted it to be anything other than what it truly was.

I walked through the front door and immediately knew that she was upstairs with another man. I just stood at the base of the stairs, listening to their moans echo feverishly throughout the house. I believe there was a moment of shock or terror because I felt completely helpless as my legs refused to move. I wanted to turn and leave, but I needed to see; I needed confirmation. When I got to our bedroom door, I simply pushed it aside lightly. I stood there, gun in hand, and watched as another man plowed the only woman I had dared to truly love. I watched. It lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

I didn't say a single word as the mystery man jumped from OUR bed and quickly collected his clothes. I remember the sound of his voice, but not what he said. I had, for a moment, forgotten the weight of the pistol in my hand. The mystery man pushed past me, took off down the stairs and slammed the door behind him; it all happened so fast. I just stood there and watched her collect the sheets, blankets and pillows, attempting to cover herself.

"I'm sorry..." she said. I could tell she was afraid.

"Get up!" I demanded.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

She stood up slowly, the blankets still hugging her body. My intentions, while grim, were never to hurt her. The pistol in my hand, while it was the source of her fear, had completely left my mind; I forgot that I even had it. I simply wanted the mattress. I aggressively pulled the mattress through the hallway and down the stairs to the backyard. I took cooking oil from the kitchen and doused the queen-sized mattress. I snatched the blankets and sheets from her hand, leaving her confused and exposed. I doused those as well and lit the pile on fire. I watched it burn.

"Get dressed..." I told her. "...we need to go shopping for a new bed."

The Hell I Carry

We never really spoke of that day again, but other truths slowly began to reveal themselves. Jada never worked as a party planner and those weeks that she spent away, were spent with him. He'd give her money and she'd continue the lie. Despite this, I stayed. I allowed the toxic situation to draw me in and once the threat was eliminated, stability began to resettle in our household. What a beautiful illusion it was.

We still didn't have sex, but we conversed more and spent the weekends going on mini adventures with the children. She even allowed Erin and Conner to call her mommy. It was beautiful, but beauty that can be seen is a temporary thing. Over time, all outside beauty fades and shrivels, and the only beauty left is the beauty that can be felt. On the outside, our world seemed manageable, but if you were to cut it open and peek at the innards, you'd see nothing but rotting memories and suppressed urges. We were nothing more than broken things; still functioning, but broken, nonetheless.

Life has an odd sense of humor; a way of breaking us down so that we may rebuild sturdier foundations. It seems that when you believe things cannot get any worse, they do. However, it also seems that when you believe things cannot get any better, they do. Jada began having unexpected pains in her abdominal area with intense bleeding and leakage. I rushed her to the hospital. It didn't take long for the doctors to recognize the issue right away; she was pregnant. Somehow, she hadn't realized that she was harboring a life in her womb. The baby had only been growing for 7 months but was ready to come now. When the doctor told me that Jada was giving birth, I felt as though I had entered the twilight zone. Another child? We weren't even having sex, so how was this possible? It was as if my mind had forgotten the mystery man. I couldn't even remember what he looked like; all I remembered was his red charger parked outside of our home.

I joined Jada in the delivery room. A white elephant sat uncomfortably between us as nurses and doctors rushed to her side; this would be a difficult delivery. My mind wandered back to the previous few nights; nights filled with liquor and crushed Xanax. We had spent so many nights poisoning our bodies, while simultaneously (and unknowingly) corrupting the development of our unborn child. This baby was being born into an untamable hell. It seemed as though every time the news of new life was promised, I was filled with dread rather than excitement.

We named her Anastasia. Despite the difficult delivery and her premature state, four weeks later, we were able to bring our baby girl home. Anastasia had smooth brown skin and eyes, with chubby cheeks and curly hair. She was beautiful, but Jada and I both knew that she couldn't biologically be mine; I loved her regardless. At the hospital, I was given the opportunity to have a paternity test done; I denied it. Some truths are better left unknown. The truth indeed has the potential to set you free, but what is freedom without joy? She became my joy; the push I needed to take another tiny step on a path that, at that moment, had no clear destination.

My focus was revitalized. I sat down and developed tedious plans designed to promote a sense of organization and discipline within our home. The children had chores, schedules and tasks. We scheduled specific days and times for cleaning, laundry, homework, breakfast, lunch, dinner and bedtime. I gained control of a chaotic situation and the pieces of the hell I had come to know, slowly began to fall into place; peace began to settle in around me.

However, Jada had grown completely detached from Anastasia. We never got the opportunity to discuss why she refused to love our beautiful baby girl, but such a conversation wouldn't matter now. Jada would begin disappearing for weeks again, but I no longer possessed the urge to chase and beg. I allowed her to indulge in the hell that provided her with the warmth she craved because I knew that I could no longer provide it for her.

I have always been told that there are two types of pains in life: the kind that hurts you and the kind that changes you. I have known many instances of pain, each moment a piece, each piece a story. Every story, even those shrouded in blood, regret and misery, as beautiful as life itself. Is this not a beautiful life? I would ask myself this question, but even before the question finished, I would know the answer. It is indeed.

It was a particularly warm Saturday evening. I remember sitting at the desktop computer, uncomfortably finishing a last-minute homework assignment. The kids had all settled down into their usual weekend routines. The boys were on their game systems and the girls were playing in each other's hair and painting their nails. I remember the faint smell of the nail polish mixing with the heated aroma of the pork chops baking in the oven. I had laid Anastasia down for a nap nearly 3 hours ago. The details of that night often replay in my mind, I remember everything. I remember her small body cradled in my arms, the sound of her tired moans as she settled against my chest. I remember her tired eyes fighting to stay awake, a battle she would soon lose. I remember the way her tiny fingers grasped the tip of my nose as she hungrily reached for her bottle, quickly draining it.

Time is tricky, both a healer and a dealer of pain; both a gift given, and something loved that is quickly reclaimed. Time hovered over us as we basked in her last moments of life. If I had known that Time had run out, like the last drop of milk that drained from her bottle, perhaps, I would have stayed a bit longer. Perhaps, I would've laid next to her instead of leaving her alone in the darkness. Perhaps, I would've kept the light on and played gentle music to ease her as she rested. Perhaps, I wouldn't have rushed out of the room, to finish an assignment I should have completed days ago. She would never wake from her nap.

The moment I walked into the pitch-black room, I knew something was different. It was silent; too silent. I couldn't hear her mighty lungs pumping oxygen through her tiny body. I flipped the light switch on and there she lay, like an angel meant for heaven (or at least some place more beautiful than this). I kneeled next to her lifeless body and lifted her gently in my arms. My instincts began to take over, I checked to see if she was breathing. I listened, and I waited. I yelled for the kids to call 9-1-1 and I began administering CPR, though I knew life had long ago left her body. All that remained was her shell; her soul had already set sail.

I don't remember how long it took for the paramedics to arrive; the entire moment became a blur. My body went into shock as reality clouded my horizon like a blackened cloud. I felt a hand, a strong reassuring hand, clamp down on my shoulder in an effort to pull me away from her body. Time was gone and all that remained, was the moment; another piece of an unfinished puzzle.

SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) has no real scientific explanation. According to recent reports, nearly 2,500 infants die as a result of SIDS every year in the United States. I would spend hours researching studies, reading the stories of other grieving parents, trying to find an answer to satisfy the crippling pain; nothing would suffice. I would bury Anastasia alone. Jada refused to attend her funeral or to view her tiny body. She would simply become a memory that we never discussed.

The hardest part about losing a child, was finding the strength to live for Erin and Conner. My soul was broken, and I grieved alone, while everyone around me slowly healed. One night, a few weeks after losing Anastasia, Jada joined me in bed. She held me tightly and told me she loved me. She whispered in my ear and cradled me against her chest.

"You can call me mama...." She said.

It was comforting to be held; to feel the reassurance of her arms, like a security blanket weighing me down. I didn't want to be the captain today, I simply wanted to ride the waves and get lost in the storm. She touched me and kissed me in a way that reminded me of the first time we indulged in one another; she wanted me.

"Give me a baby..." she whispered.

Her words were like knives, digging into my skin and dragging across its surface. A baby? I believe in that moment, I craved salvation, freedom. That night, I would leave Jada for good. She'd threaten me, chase me and fight me, but I'd never return. Tammy would welcome me back with opened arms and a sigh of relief. Steve rarely came around, the house seemed emptier. The walls had been patched up, the broken furniture had been replaced. Family photos had been replaced with generic photos of scenic valleys and looming mountains. The tragedies that occurred within these walls seemed smaller now; the pain seemed bearable. The hell I carried had, for the moment, become a bit lighter.

The Conclusion (Sort Of)

How could I have known what Time would take away from me? How could I have known what it would give me? As I walked across the stage, collecting my first degree, I often asked myself...what hell would find me next? As I sit here at my laptop, reflecting on the words I have written and the memories I have forced myself to re-live, I ask myself...what now? So many questions, so little time and even fewer answers. Aakash Shah once said that "some questions are better left unanswered and some answers are better left unquestioned."

Perhaps, it is, after-all, not answers that I am seeking. Perhaps, I simply wanted my story to be known. It is not about justice or revenge, but acceptance and growth. I have accepted that my past happened; I will no longer run from the truth that has incarcerated me within the realms of my own mind. The mind is an inescapable prison; one that we have formulated against ourselves. If I am to be honest, I still sit quietly in my cell, but I am aware that freedom is possible. This confinement, while comforting, has prevented me from ameliorating my mental state and, therefore, my quality of life.

Steve still comes around, but his visits are few and far in-between. Tammy will occasionally engage in simple jargon with him, but has not, as of yet, allowed him to move back in.

 Jada will occasionally send me random text messages in an attempt to erase the progress I've made. However, I refuse to entertain her nonchalant mannerism and antics:

She pretends as though our daughter never existed, so, after taking a page from her book, I now treat her with the same indifferent coldness. It is easier to pretend than to remember, but I crave the memories of my little girl. Her memory, like the first day I brought her home, still rejuvenates my focus as I strive to be a better father and person. I want to heal; I want to rid myself of this hell that I have allowed to thrive in my soul. I want to allow her, the woman I now look to with eyes of desperation and admiration, to heal me in the same way a mother kisses her child's bruised knee.

Beth, after I reached out to her to find answers to incorporate into this story, has disappeared. She has deleted all social media accounts and she can no longer be reached at her telephone number.

The process of healing is not a linear journey. There have been times when I have relapsed and succumbed to the numbness that, ironically, hurts the most. I no longer see my therapist, as financial issues have made it difficult for me, a single father now pursuing my PhD, to afford such luxuries. However, I have this story; my story. It is not the therapy my mind craves, or the subtle advice my heart needs...but it is an opportunity to retrace the steps I once knew so well. It is a reminder that I have, in a past life, survived hells far worse that student loans and looming due dates. It is a reminder that, while the flames have consumed all before me, the ashes now make way for new life.

Healing does not mean that the damage never existed; it means that the damage no longer controls my life, my future. Hippocrates once wrote that "healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity." This book has provided me with that opportunity and the first step towards healing is acknowledging the wound. So, as I put this hell to rest, I allow the last weakening flame to lick at the final wound. The last piece of the puzzle, now burns before me.

The End

(At least for now)
