Clown

I remember having this page in my notebook where I scribbled ‘NOT REAL’ over and over again. He kept insisting I’d done things I hadn’t, trying to make me believe I was a bad person. I scribbled so hard, my pen went through the page.

It was like all the shouting inside me found its way out onto that paper.

I would run and sit by the river. One day, I’ll be free, one way or another. Somewhere where nobody can hurt me.

Life is just too hard here. I don’t want to be here anymore.

I don’t want to be anywhere anymore.

At first, it was just a bit of harmless fun, just a game we played.

But he started leaving for longer periods. He would go to the pub. I was scared. I dreaded his return and what he might do. I didn’t know what state he would be in.

Sometimes he would bring other men home. To use me for fun or to pay off his debts. I would lay there. I couldn’t run away.

I wanted it to stop. I wanted to die.

I still remember that belt. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.

He used to leave it in plain sight, moving it around so I couldn’t escape seeing it. I knew exactly what it meant – the consequences if I made even the smallest mistake.

He would put a chair in the kitchen and make me sit on it. If I refused, he would push me down and tie me to it.

He would make me tell him all the things I had done wrong that day. Then he would hit me for them.

If I couldn’t think of anything, he would call me a liar and lock me in there until I thought of something. I had to think of something even though I knew he was going to hit me.

I wanted to apply for a job, nothing fancy, just working at the local shop. But he wouldn’t let me. He kept insisting that I should stay at home. All I wanted was to do something, to meet people, but he shut down all those possibilities.

It felt like he was holding me back from living my life, from being independent.