Torment by AusPoet
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Description
I have a little clear plastic box here, which is full of little coloured slips of paper. Each slip of paper has keywords on it that refer to a memory. This morning I have randomly selected a piece of paper and written about that incident. My plan is to keep doing this as regularly as possible.
It's 1981 and I am lying on the floor of the bedroom I share with my adoptive sister. My adoptive brother (age 15) and sister (age 13) are also in the room. I'm nearly 11 years old. I can't see anything, because they have blindfolded me. I can't move particularly much either and I'm very uncomfortable, because they have bound my hands and feet using a skipping rope. They are very quiet, except for the occasional snicker. I can feel their bodies crouching over my slight form, smell their power over me. I am terrified as I wait to find out what they are going to do to me this time. This is different to usual. Usually they ignore me, or try to get me to talk, knowing that I am not allowed to reply to them, knowing that if they can taunt me hard enough they might get a response from me and then they can tell their mother and get me into trouble. If they attack me physically, it's usually what people would consider to be a normal fight amongst brothers and sisters - of course with me coming off worst damaged every time, given their size advantage and their desire to be completely brutal towards me. This silent attack seems somehow much more terrifying. Inside my stomach, everything is all knotted and churning as I wait, listening to them breathe, feeling them look at each other and plot with their eyes. I wish I knew what they were going to do, but at the same time I don't want to know. I wish they would get it over and done with, but at the same time I am afraid of what it is that they have planned. I wait, expecting blows to fall on random parts of my body, expecting hands to wrap around my throat and squeeze the breath from me, expecting them to remove my clothes and humiliate me. And then something hits my forehead and I flinch suddenly. They laugh out loud with glee. Strange� it wasn't painful. A wet trickle streams from my forehead down to my hair, and I realise it was a drop of water that hit me. Then there's another. I flinch again. I start to concentrate on my breathing, counting in my head as I breath in and out, seeing if I can work out a rhythm in the drops. Another hits me (four breaths), and I start counting again. The next drop is after five breaths, and the next is after three. Each time I still flinch, and each time the anxiety builds as I find that I cannot accurately predict the next. I keep concentrating on my breathing, realising that although there is no rhythm to the drops, the breathing is calming me just a little, keeping the anxiety at bay just a bit. Another ten minutes or so pass by with the water drops, interchanged with laughter from them as they relish in their power over me. They get up, and after explaining to me that this is called "Chinese Water Torture," they snigger and leave the room. I am left there, bound, blindfolded, my wet hair plastered to my head and wondering how long they will leave me like this, but glad to have a break from the torment. I keep concentrating on my breathing and strain to hear what they are doing so that I can mentally prepare somewhat when I know they are about to return. They are gone for what seems quite a while, and I start to drift off to sleep a little. Suddenly I am awakened by more drops on my forehead. I internally curse at myself for being stupid enough to fall asleep, for not being aware that they had returned. The water torture continued for another twenty minutes or so and then I guess they were bored at that point, because they decided they'd had enough. They tried to frighten me more by talking about bamboo splinters thrust up under fingernails as another torture technique, but fortunately didn't actually decide to inflict that one on me. Throughout the ordeal, although I was eventually crying and begging them to stop, I did my best to concentrate on my breathing between the drops. The fact that I was breathing was a little like having an anchor to hold onto in a world where everything was uncertain and unpredictable - I still had life in me, and I wasn't about to let go of that thought.
It's 1981 and I am lying on the floor of the bedroom I share with my adoptive sister. My adoptive brother (age 15) and sister (age 13) are also in the room. I'm nearly 11 years old. I can't see anything, because they have blindfolded me. I can't move particularly much either and I'm very uncomfortable, because they have bound my hands and feet using a skipping rope. They are very quiet, except for the occasional snicker. I can feel their bodies crouching over my slight form, smell their power over me. I am terrified as I wait to find out what they are going to do to me this time. This is different to usual. Usually they ignore me, or try to get me to talk, knowing that I am not allowed to reply to them, knowing that if they can taunt me hard enough they might get a response from me and then they can tell their mother and get me into trouble. If they attack me physically, it's usually what people would consider to be a normal fight amongst brothers and sisters - of course with me coming off worst damaged every time, given their size advantage and their desire to be completely brutal towards me. This silent attack seems somehow much more terrifying. Inside my stomach, everything is all knotted and churning as I wait, listening to them breathe, feeling them look at each other and plot with their eyes. I wish I knew what they were going to do, but at the same time I don't want to know. I wish they would get it over and done with, but at the same time I am afraid of what it is that they have planned. I wait, expecting blows to fall on random parts of my body, expecting hands to wrap around my throat and squeeze the breath from me, expecting them to remove my clothes and humiliate me. And then something hits my forehead and I flinch suddenly. They laugh out loud with glee. Strange� it wasn't painful. A wet trickle streams from my forehead down to my hair, and I realise it was a drop of water that hit me. Then there's another. I flinch again. I start to concentrate on my breathing, counting in my head as I breath in and out, seeing if I can work out a rhythm in the drops. Another hits me (four breaths), and I start counting again. The next drop is after five breaths, and the next is after three. Each time I still flinch, and each time the anxiety builds as I find that I cannot accurately predict the next. I keep concentrating on my breathing, realising that although there is no rhythm to the drops, the breathing is calming me just a little, keeping the anxiety at bay just a bit. Another ten minutes or so pass by with the water drops, interchanged with laughter from them as they relish in their power over me. They get up, and after explaining to me that this is called "Chinese Water Torture," they snigger and leave the room. I am left there, bound, blindfolded, my wet hair plastered to my head and wondering how long they will leave me like this, but glad to have a break from the torment. I keep concentrating on my breathing and strain to hear what they are doing so that I can mentally prepare somewhat when I know they are about to return. They are gone for what seems quite a while, and I start to drift off to sleep a little. Suddenly I am awakened by more drops on my forehead. I internally curse at myself for being stupid enough to fall asleep, for not being aware that they had returned. The water torture continued for another twenty minutes or so and then I guess they were bored at that point, because they decided they'd had enough. They tried to frighten me more by talking about bamboo splinters thrust up under fingernails as another torture technique, but fortunately didn't actually decide to inflict that one on me. Throughout the ordeal, although I was eventually crying and begging them to stop, I did my best to concentrate on my breathing between the drops. The fact that I was breathing was a little like having an anchor to hold onto in a world where everything was uncertain and unpredictable - I still had life in me, and I wasn't about to let go of that thought.
Comments (2)
meico
Seldom hasI felt such anger as I did on reading this episode in your life. Children are sometimes so unbelievably and unremittingly cruel - in direct proportion to the vulnerability of the victim it seems. Although this comment is NOT a criticism of your previous life episode, I have to say that this is much more tightly written, and all the better for it. Though your pieces don't fail to put me through the emotional wringer [as I'm sure they do you!] I think it is important that you continue. I, for one, will certainly wish to read. Thanks for having the courage to share. Take care, Mike
BlueLotus7
It seems that tormenting one another in childhood years is a shared pleasure amongst children from all walks of life and places on Earth. Too bad. For it stains forever the purity in which we were born and becomes a shadow across our future social interactions. Thank you for sharing, even if my own memories rise up to haunt me once again. Perhaps I need to acknowledge, accept and move on.