by Alyssa Novak
Fading Away
By Alyssa Novak
Copyright 2012 Alyssa Novak
***
This is not how it was supposed to end. I was supposed to live a happy, long life. They never said I would end up alone, in the darkest corner of my room, dying.
Should I scream? Let someone know I am here; let them know I’m fading quickly? I probably should, but I won’t. I should not be saved. I deserve this; after all, I am a “bad girl” aren’t I?
My life is far from complete and as I lay here dying I cannot help but remember the black hole I called life.
***
Uncle John was a horrible person. To this day, I can still remember his dark daunting eyes that used to stare down at me. His tall yet full body still wanders in my mind as if he is in front of me, yelling at me as if I was the bad one. I was a bad girl. He never let me forget it and it still sticks with me, even on my so-called deathbed.
The day the relentless abuse, the physical, mental and sexual pain, started was just like any other. I sat up in my bed, hanging my legs over the edge of the bed, as I prepared myself for a day full of television and fun. After all, I was only eight and my little mind could never have put together what would be happening to me for the next two years.
“Alexis!”
I hear my name, his voice, as if it is being screamed in my ear at this very instant. I hear the pounding footsteps as he comes down the hallway. His bare feet clunk against the wood floor as if he is purposely digging his heel into the ground after each step. I stare at the door as the knob turns and a monster emerges from the hallway and comes barreling towards me.
“Did you not hear me, young lady!” he screams at me, as if I wasn’t two inches from his face. He quickly snatches me up by my shirt and asks me again if I had heard him. I start to answer but I’m instantly breathless as he throws me against the headboard of my old, secondhand store twin mattress. It hurt as soon as I hit the top of the mattress; I figure it probably has something to do with the lack of a box spring underneath.
“I’m sorry, Uncle!” I tried to apologize, for whatever I may have done to aggravate him. It doesn’t work. He started to breathe heavier as he started to pull my pants off me. It was as if he was running a marathon. He wasn’t. By the time my mind caught up to what was going on, I was rolled over onto my stomach with my bottom bared. I didn’t even realize that he had grabbed a hairbrush off the dresser until it hit me.
“You’re hurting me! Please stop Uncle, I’m sorry!” I tried repeatedly to apologize and get him to stop. Finally, he stopped. He looked at me with the oddest look, as if he was disgusted with me. I didn't understand what I had done to set him off. As he walked out of the room, he looked back at me and sighed as he told me he loved me. I still don’t understand that statement. How could he have said it and meant it? Did he mean it?
Later that night I sat in my room awaiting my mother’s return. She wasn’t around often, and when she was, I would have to compete with everyone around me for her attention. It wasn’t fair but they always said life wasn’t fair. I guess I just got the lower end of the teeter-totter. It was as if I was sitting with a kid half my size but I couldn’t gain the strength to push myself up. I couldn’t tell her what had happened. I didn’t understand it enough to say anything. I couldn’t tell her what I had done, for I didn’t even know myself. Therefore, I kept it in. I held my secret and hoped that it would never happen again.
I was let down by my hopes, for three days later Uncle was storming down the hall to my room, yelling my name the whole way. I hadn’t even gotten out of bed before he was on top of me. He hit me in the side of my stomach so hard I thought I would stop breathing all together. Then, something weird happened. He started to remove my pajama pants and I thought I was in for another spanking. I was very wrong. I had no words for what was happening. I started crying as he began to move. I told him he was hurting me. I tried to push him off. I tried screaming for someone, anyone to help me. He told me to shut up, covered my mouth with his hand and commenced to huffing air over me. His face kept getting closer and farther. I tried to hold back my tears; I tried to imagine I was somewhere else. It didn’t help the pain. Finally, he stops moving and stands up. He looks down at me as he zips his pants back up. He tells me to get dressed and go eat. Yet again, as he leaves my room, he looks back and tells me he loves me.
For the next couple of months my daily routine was the same.
Wake up. Pain. Potty. Cereal. Cartoons.
When I was almost 10 it got worse. He began to force me to watch dirty movies while sitting in his lap. He would build forts over the couches and the television. He tried to make it a game. I did not like this game, and I never, ever won. He was always yelling at me and making excuses to ensure that I would receive the spanking he felt I deserved. When he was not hitting me, touching me or getting me into trouble he was normal. Acting as if he has never done the things he has done to me. As if he wasn’t a monster but I knew the truth. I was no longer afraid of the dark. The boogieman no longer haunted my nightmares. Uncle John had taken his place.
I had begun to pray, every night, for my father to save me. When it didn’t happen, I began to pray that anyone would stop him; that someone would make the pain stop. No one ever came and the pain did not stop. As I got older, I started acting out. I know I shouldn’t have, it only made the abuse worse. I couldn’t help it though, the attention I got was all I knew and I craved it.
As I hit junior high I met my best friend and my savior, or at least I thought so. Sarah was amazing. We went to rock shows at the teen center and hung out every day, all day. One day, I noticed something on her arm. I saw lines going straight across her wrists. They were faded but still dark enough to see what was there. We talked about the different things she did to help soothe the pain, when she felt it. She introduced me to what would become my favorite pastime. Self-mutilation seemed to be the only answer to my problems. We walked from my house to the little liquor store down the street and purchased a pack of razors, the ones you put in the box cutters. We never let each other see what we did; though it was a secret we both shared. It was a secret that ended up being my own. She told me that she quit doing it and wished that I would too. I couldn’t stop. Before I knew it, I was cutting every night. I found different ways to accomplish my goal of increasing the pain I caused. I moved from limb to limb trying to find the perfect place to hide my mutilation. My ankles seemed to be the perfect hiding place, but that didn’t keep me from moving to my wrists and hiding them with bracelets. I would lay awake, crying at night, using my razor as the escape from reality I desperately needed.
Sarah and I drifted apart slowly. We were always in a fight with one another. Eventually I switched schools and began over again. I made new friends. They were different. I guess you could consider them good kids. They didn’t do the same things I did. They didn’t smoke, drink, or cut. I was once again stuck with my secret, carrying it alone. I began to use the internet to meet people. I met a boy named Tyler. He was only a month older than I was and lived a couple states away. He was my new escape. I would constantly run up my phone bill talking to him. When we talked, I forgot about my past and the pain that still haunted me. I think I even began to love him. I am not sure what happened throughout our so-called relationship. It all seems to blur as I get to this part of my life. I had learned of a new way to escape the pain. This solution worked, though it mixed my days and nights, blurred my years and months.
The pills I took seemed to bring me solace. With every handful came peace, I was alone in my head, at least for a moment. Even though they made me sick at first, I enjoyed the feeling. I didn’t care, didn’t remember. I just was.
My friends didn’t stop me. Why didn’t they stop
me? They had to have known something was wrong. How could they not? I guess that doesn’t matter anymore, soon I’ll be gone.
Eventually, a few people started to notice. I wasn’t myself anymore. I wasn’t sleeping, or I was sleeping too much. I wasn’t eating. Just thinking about putting substance into my mouth was nauseating. I wasn’t particularly fond of the fact that people were finding out. I knew they’d take it away from me. I knew they’d cause the memories to come back by taking away my solace. Then one day, it happened. My best friend caught me. However, as I look back, I think I was asking for it. I was unconsciously searching for the help I needed. The knowledge of my ways reached my stepmother and she was
