Broken

by Oliver T Spedding

  The man smiled at me and patted me on the thigh.

  “Don’t worry, sonny.” he said. “I’ll tell where he is and when he gets the ball.”

  My father glared at the man but didn’t say anything.

  When the game ended we walked back to our car. My father met an acquaintance and stopped to talk to him. The children were still playing on the grass. I glanced up at my father desperately hoping that he would tell me to go off and play with the other children while he spoke to his friend. He ignored me. I decided to slowly move behind my father and then run to the other children but my mother guessed what I was about to do and stopped me.

  “Come and stand next to me, Garth.” she said. “I can see that you’re planning to run away and play with those children.”

  My shoulders sagged with disappointment and I moved closer to my mother. Why couldn’t my parents see how desperately I wanted to play with other children?

  We finally got home and as we walked into the house my father turned towards me and slapped me hard across the face. I fell to the floor, stunned.

  “Your behaviour today was appalling!” he shouted at me. “I’ll never take you to another football game again! You behaved as if we went there for your sake. Well, we didn’t. We took you with us because we couldn’t leave you here alone and you were a damned nuisance all afternoon! All you wanted to do was play with the other children. You weren’t really interested in the game. I could see that clearly. Now, go to bed! There’ll be no supper for you tonight!”

  I stood up, crying miserably. I couldn’t believe what my father had just said. I had been thrilled by the game and, apart from wanting to play with the other children I had tried my absolute best not to be a nuisance.

  I walked to my bedroom, took off my shoes, and climbed onto my bed. The day that I’d so looked forward to had turned into a disaster. Was I really just a nuisance to my parents? Was that all I was? I brushed the tears off my cheeks and took a deep breath. Loneliness crept over me as I though of the happy children I’d seen that afternoon. Why wasn’t I allowed to be happy? I so longed to laugh uncontrollably, to shout and run about carefree and joyful, free from the worries and fears that filled my life at present. I fell asleep.

  ***

  “Thank you, Garth.” my attorney, Paul Greave said. “I’m going to interrupt you at this stage. You may leave the witness stand.”

  I stepped down from the stand and walked back to my seat next to Cindy. Paul Greave turned to Judge Warren Bester.

  “Your Honour.” he said. “At this point I would like to re-introduce Doctor Thomas.”

  “You may.” the judge said.

  The psychiatrist stepped onto the witness stand and was once again sworn in.

  “Doctor Thomas.” Paul Greave said. “In your earlier testimony you stated that sexual child abuse was not confined to girls and that a considerable percentage of victims were boys. Do you have any idea of what that percentage might be?”

  “The biggest problem with sexual child abuse statistics is under-reporting.” the psychiatrist said. “There is no doubt that a large number of cases are never reported but from the figures that we have been able to compile it appears that about thirty three percent, or one third, are boys.”

  “Are the long-term effects of sexual child abuse the same for both sexes?”

  “Very much so.” Doctor Thomas said. “One must understand that child abuse does not occur between equals and the victim is always reduced to a state of helplessness. The abuser is always in control as he or she is both physically and mentally stronger and far more experienced. This helplessness is devastating to the victim and almost always results in a deep sense of shame guilt and anger. Shame and guilt because the victim eventually realises that what is happening is morally wrong, and anger that he or she is incapable of doing anything to prevent it. It’s important to note that this anger is mostly directed inwardly and not at the abuser.”

  “Why is this inward-directed anger so damaging?”

  “This type of anger has a direct effect on the victim’s self-esteem and self-confidence.” the psychiatrist said. “What children who are abused don’t realise, simply because they are children, is that they are completely out of their depth when trying to cope with abuse and that they are helpless as a result. No matter what they did they would not be able to prevent what is happening to them and unless they can come to terms with this fact, it will dominate their lives completely.

  "The problem with this type of anger is that it is not easily discernable because it is not directed at other people and remains hidden to the untrained observer.”

  “How do the long-term effects of sexual child abuse differ from other traumatic events?”

  “Every catastrophe has consequences.” Doctor Thomas said. “Age, coupled with experience determine how people react. Traumas such as floods, earthquakes and storms are considered to be natural traumas as no other person is directly responsible and the way that a child would react to such an event depends on his or her age and comprehension. But when a personalised tragedy involving the breaking of trust and the infliction of harm occurs, it can be deadly to the psyche.

  "Distrust is one of the most debilitating traits in a child’s life as it is impossible to apply selectively. No relationship at any age can survive without trust. This suspicion of other people’s motives usually leads to the avoidance of human contact at a very tender age in an attempt to prevent disappointment.

  "These tragedies or abuses remain embedded as felt experiences and have a profound effect on the child’s thought processes. Children who have been abused are seriously impaired and the results can take various forms. Some occur early on while others develop slowly and often only appear in adulthood. Some examples of the effects of abuse are depression, learning difficulties, bed-wetting, bullying and low self-esteem. Abused children have the capability to negate their experiences by simple blocking out the things that they don’t understand, but this doesn’t mean that the memories have disappeared. They remain in the psyche, hidden by pure will-power and can surface at any time in later life.”

  Paul Greave put his sheaf of notes down on the table.

  “Thank you doctor.” he said. “That will be all.”

  As the doctor stepped down from the witness stand my attorney turned to the judge.

  “Your Honour.” he said. “I would now like to bring back Garth Gilmore to continue with his testimony.”

  The judge nodded.

  ***

  My first few years at primary school were filled with new experiences and, although I tried to make friends with many of my schoolmates, I found myself unable to return the genuineness that they exhibited. I found it impossible to trust others beyond a certain point and I therefore kept many things about me to myself for fear that they might be used to ridicule and belittle me. As soon as I sensed a relationship becoming too personal I would withdraw behind the protective wall that I’d built around myself. As a result my fellow pupils remained acquaintances and never friends.

  My parent’s reluctance to allow me to socialise with other children exacerbated my withdrawn nature and I suffered many disappointments as my attempts at creating friendships failed. Fortunately the school organised a considerable number of outing s to places like the zoo, the park beside the lake, the art gallery and the museum. These outings took place during school hours and although they were strictly controlled by the teachers, they did give me an opportunity to interact with the other children outside the confines of the school.

  Although I enjoyed my studies I soon realised that I was never destined to be an academic achiever and my results kept me in the lower half of the school’s academic achievements list. The same situation prevailed in the sports arena. I enjoyed taking part but as soon as I found myself in a position where I had to commit myself, my lack of self-confidence would thwart my progress. As a result I was never selected for any of the school’s sports teams. In a way this was a relief to me a
s it meant that I could never let down my team-mates, something that I was convinced that I would do. I concentrated rather on being an enthusiastic team supporter.

  I firmly believe that my anti-social, unfriendly behaviour and my deliberate detachment from emotional contact with other people was the direct result of the distrust that my father instilled in me during my formative years. This suspicion of other people’s motives had led me to avoid situations at a very tender age where I would have to rely on other people as I involuntarily expected them to disappoint me.

  During the year that I turned ten I became aware of a subtle change in my father’s attitude towards me. He still shouted at me and assaulted me for the slightest transgression but during, and especially after, the attacks on me I noticed a prominent bulge in the front of his trousers that usually had a wet patch on it. He also touched my body more often, surreptitiously touching my genitals with his free hand as he hit me and frequently coming into the bathroom when I was having a bath.

  This behaviour began to frighten me even more than the beatings did, mainly because it was so mysterious and unlike my father. Like most children, I feared the things that I didn’t understand.

  My father had a dark green nineteen fifty four-door Austin A4 Devon that he cherished and, only if it required major repairs that he couldn’t do himself, would he allow anyone else to work on it. Every Sunday afternoon after lunch, he would put on his blue overalls and spend the whole afternoon tinkering with the motor and polishing the paintwork. He serviced the vehicle frequently, changing the sparkplugs and oil at regular intervals and adjusting the brakes to suit his driving technique.

  The garage where the car was kept was built onto the side of the house and had two large wooden doors in the front and a large window with small glass panes in the outer side wall. This window was large enough to allow sufficient light into the structure to enable my father to work on the car with the doors closed. To help him see into some of the more confined areas of the engine he also had a hand-held electric lamp with a protective wire grid.

  My father discouraged my mother and me from coming into the garage while he was working on his car and usually took a few cold beers with him for refreshment so that he wouldn’t be disturbed. The few friends that my father had knew not to visit him on Sunday afternoons. I was therefore astonished and frightened when, one Sunday after lunch, my father told me to accompany him to the garage.

  “It’s about time you learnt something about cars and how to service and repair them.” my father said. “You might even want to be a mechanic when you grow up. And even if you don’t you’ll be able to save a lot of money by doing your own servicing and repairs.”

  I glanced at my mother but she ignored me, concentrating on clearing the dishes from the table.

  “Go and put on your oldest clothes.” my father said. “We can’t afford to buy you an overall.”

  I went to my bedroom and, with a hollow feeling of dread in my stomach, changed into my oldest clothes. My father never allowed anyone into the garage while he was working on his car and now he wanted me to be there. Why?

  I followed my father to the garage. He opened one of the doors and when we were both inside, he closed it and locked it from the inside. The smell of petrol, oil and rubber filled the air of the room. Even though the sun was shining brightly outside, the light that filtered in through the window left the inside of the garage dim and gloomy.

  My father undid the latch that held the bonnet in placed and raised the cover. I could see him glancing at me furtively, his breathing loud and hoarse. My fear increased even though my father’s actions seemed normal.

  “Pull that wooden box over here so that you can stand on it and see into the engine.” my father said pointing at a small wooden box next to the wall.

  I dragged the box closer to the front of the car and climbed onto it.

  “Lean over so that you can see where I’m pointing.” my father said, his voice strangely husky.

  My father leant over the front of the car and pointed into the depths of the motor with his left hand. As I leant over the front of the car to see what my father was pointing at I felt his right hand slide up the inside of my left thigh and gently grip my genitals. I froze with fright and horror.

  “Garth.” my father said, his voice strained and hoarse. “We’re going to do something this afternoon that’s quite normal and is done by all fathers and their sons. It’s very important though that what we’ll be doing must remain a secret between the two of us. If you tell any one I’ll hurt you so badly that you’ll never be able to walk again. I’ll break your legs and possibly also your back. Nobody, not even your mother, must know. Do you understand?”

  As my father spoke I could feel him gently fondling my genitals. The shock at what my father was doing to me paralysed me. My whole body froze and I could hardly breathe.

  “Answer me.” my father said. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  My fear and helplessness overwhelmed me but I forced myself to nod my head as I turned and looked up at my father. The look of pure lust in his eyes petrified me and I began to cry in confusion.

  “Stop crying!” my father said. “What we’re doing is quite natural. There’s nothing wrong and there’s nothing to be afraid of. All fathers and their sons do this.”

  My father continued to fondle me and then began to massage my penis.

  “Put your hand inside my overalls and hold my willy.” my father said.

  I shook my head, instinctively knowing that what my father wanted me to do was wrong.

  “Do as I say or I’ll light a cigarette and burn you so badly behind your ears that they’ll never heal.” my father said, his voice hard and menacing.

  I tried to stop myself but my fear was far too overpowering and I felt my hand move into the opening in the trousers of his overalls. I began to cry again. Why was my father doing this to me? I’d never heard any of the other boys talk about doing things like this with their fathers.

  “Hold my willy!” my father hissed. “And stop crying!”

  I felt my hand move further down into my father’s trousers until it touched his stiff penis. I cringed with fear at its size. During this time my father continued to fondle me.

  As my fingers took hold of the tip of my fathers member I heard him draw in a sharp breath and gasp. I looked up at his face as he squeezed his eyes shut and bared his teeth in an expression of exquisite pleasure. I felt his whole body tense and he gripped my genitals painfully. His whole body shuddered and I felt a hot sticky fluid spurt out of his penis into the palm of my hand. I pulled my hand out of his pants and began to cry with confusion and fear. I felt my father withdraw his hand from under my pants.

  My whole body shook with fright and helplessness and I almost fell off the wooden box that I was standing on. I sensed my father relax.

  “Get off the box and put it back against the wall.” my father said as he handed me an oily cloth. “Wipe your hand on this and sit on the box and wait until I get back.”

  My father walked awkwardly to the garage door, unlocked it and pushed it open. He stepped out into the bright sunlight and closed the door behind him.

  I wiped the thick sticky fluid off my hand with the cloth. It was a pale yellow colour. I sat down on the box, my whole body numb with fright. What was my father doing to me? I couldn’t believe that what he had made me do to him was normal. It felt so wrong. I felt my anger rise up in me as I realised just how helpless I was. Why hadn’t I simply refused to do what I had just done? Deep within me though, I knew that I had had no option. I truly believed that if I had not obeyed my father he would have hurt me badly. I began to cry with frustration.

  I realised that what had just happened here in the garage would happen again. Probably many times. And it was very likely to get worse. I hated myself for my helplessness. The only thing that I could do was to blank out the memory of what had happened. In this way I would be able to continue with my life.

/>   I got up from the box, lay down on the cold concrete floor and curled up into a foetus position, my hand clenched under my chin. I forced myself to blank out what had just happened to me.

  My father prodding me with the toe of his shoe woke me. I looked up at him fearfully, noticing that he was wearing a clean pair of overalls.

  “Get up.” he said. “I’m going to tell you once more. If you say anything to anyone about what we did this afternoon and will be doing every Sunday from now on you’ll regret it for the rest of your life! Now, bring the box over here to the front of the car and I’ll show you how to change a sparkplug.”

  I stood shivering on the box, my body trying to recover from the shock that it had undergone. I watched my father working on the car’s engine but I was so confused and frightened that I didn’t understand a single thing that he said. All I could do was shake or nod my head whenever he questioned me.

  Eventually we left the garage and returned to the house. My mother ignored me completely. I went to my bedroom, took off my shoes, and climbed onto my bed. I lay on my side and stared at the wall. Why were these terrible things that I didn’t understand, happening to me?

  The following week filled me with dread. I found it impossible to concentrate and there were several times when I got into trouble for not doing my homework and for not listening to my teacher’s instructions. My mind could not accept what I would have to face come Sunday afternoon. The days passed all too quickly and the moment that I so dreaded arrived.

  “Okay, Garth.” my father said as he stood up from the dinning room table. “Put on your old clothes and let’s go to the garage. Today I’ll show you how to change the fan belt.”

  I changed into my old clothes as slowly as possible desperately hoping that something would happen to prevent the abuse that I knew was about to be inflicted on me. My father waited impatiently for me. I could hear my mother beginning to wash the dishes in the kitchen. I left my bedroom and followed my father out of the house to the garage. We entered the enclosure and my father closed and locked the door.