Empty Chairs: Much more than a story about child abuse

158 Pages·2011·0.56 MB·English

by  Danson

Empty Chairs
Much more than a story about child abuse

by

Stacey Danson
ISBN 1453858520
EAN 978-1453858523

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the copyright owner.
“
Empty Chairs” was first published by Night Publishing, a trading name of
Valley Strategies Ltd., a UK-registered private limited-liability company,
registration number 5796186. Night Publishing can be contacted at:
http://www.nightpublishing.com.
“
Empty Chairs” is the copyright of the author, Stacey Danson, 2011. All
rights are reserved.
The cover design is by Sessha Batto and is her copyright, 2011. All rights are
reserved.
Note from the Author

Recent events in my small world have caused me to think deeply about the
responsibility I have, that we all have, to make people aware of what can and
does happen in a home that may well be right next door to you.
It is time.
I don’t want to remember a lot of what happened, but I do. I knew that
writing it and taking myself back over the abuse would be difficult; however, I
hadn't counted on the panic or the flashbacks. While I write, I keep taking breaks
outside, sitting in the cool night air and forcing myself to breathe deeply.
I must do this. I made a promise to someone that someday I would. Ends up
'someday' just got here a little later than I thought it would. I cannot distance my
memories and reflect back unemotionally, because it was me … feeling it, living
through and beyond it.
I firmly believe that everything that happened has helped to make me who I
am, and I am kind of fond of who I am these days. It has taken half a century to
get here, but here I am.
Physically and emotionally, everything that made me who and what I was,
was destroyed.
But they never got my soul. They didn't break me. Something in me refuses to
be broken. I don’t know what the hell you call it, but it’s strong. It burns inside
me with a life force of its own. I will be the one who decides when it is to be
extinguished.
Accidents and randomness of nature aside, I do not know how to give in
…
and I will never betray the child I was by giving up.
This book is dedicated to every child that never had a chance to be one.
To my beautiful daughter for making me glad I was born a woman.
To my friend Veronica for knowing and keeping the faith always.
To the men in my life that tried to love me.
To the man who loves me now, damage and all.
My heartfelt thanks to Tim Roux and Genevieve Graham-Sawchyn at Night
Publishing for their unwavering support and editing advice. And primarily for
taking this project on when many would have balked at the task.
To Sessha Batto, my friend, and talented artist for the superb book cover and
Empty Chairs trailer.
To the friends who have stood behind me and held me up when I thought I
would fall, my love and thanks.
Finally, in memory of Jenny, who died long before she ceased to breathe.
Chapter 1

There is no place to start this but with my first memories.
The sexual abuse began, I think, when I was around three years of age …
maybe four. It began with fondling. An adult, usually my mother, took my hand
and placed it on a man's genitalia.
I should clarify. It was not just one man. There were many men.
It was a game at first. A game that caused my mother to smile and give me
hugs of approval. Whatever male it happened to be at the time sure seemed
happy about that game as well. I had no idea what it was, or why I was doing it.
At that age, making Mommy smile was all that mattered.
Mommy didn’t smile or hug me much up until then. She liked to hit me with
a strap and yell a lot of the time. It was a relief to find something I could do that
made her happy.
I don’t recall when I started to hate the game, but I do know the first time
they put that man's thing in my mouth it made me gag, and I started to cry. I had
to be punished for that. Mommy and the man took it in turns to hit me. I
screamed, asking them to please stop. They thought that was funny, and started
laughing and making funny sounds, like a pig does when it squeals.
They dragged me to a small room in the back of the house where boxes and
old things were stored. No light came into that room. It was smelly and dark. I
could hear things scuttling around, but that didn’t frighten me; indeed, I
remember feeling a little thankful that some other live thing was in there with
me. The darkness and the lack of air caused fear, my heart was already pounding
from the terror of the beating, and now I gasped, not recognizing or
understanding that this was the beginning of a lifetime of battling
claustrophobia.
That was my first conscious memory of fear, and I didn't like it. Seemed to
me this crying stuff was not such a good thing to do. I threw up all over myself,
which stunk, and I wet myself, which stunk even worse. I remember that my
back was sore and sticky; the singlet I had on was stuck to it. I wasn’t wearing
anything else.
I was unable to keep standing because my back hurt, and my small legs shook
so badly. I crawled across to the door and lay with my mouth as close to the
crack of light as I could get. I drew in huge breaths of the air filtering in
underneath.
I don’t know which of the adults heard me gasping, but very quickly
something was placed on the other side of the door to block out the light and the
air. I have no idea how long I was kept in the room. It seemed to me that I slept
and woke up a few times. I was getting hungry and so thirsty. I started to feel
sick again and vomited more, but I had stopped wetting myself. I kept getting
thirstier and my stomach began to cramp up.
I just wanted to go to sleep and stay asleep. Nothing hurt me when I was
sleeping.
When Mommy came to get me out I was so, so grateful. She hugged me and
told me that she would bathe me because I smelled bad. If I were a good girl, I
could have some lemonade and something to eat. When she gave me the
lemonade, I tried to drink it all at once and threw up again. I waited for the slap.
She laughed instead, told me I was a silly-billy and to have small mouthfuls
until my naughty tummy settled down. She explained to me that I didn’t have to
have that happen again as long as I did what the man wanted me to do. I recall
saying that I would do anything I was told.
“
Please, Mommy … can I not go back … in the dark place?”
She smiled at me and said, “Well, we shall just see how good you can be.”
Hey, I was bright. If she smiled and hugged me and called me silly-billy in
her happy voice, well, sure I would do anything, anything at all. She had to bathe
me with my singlet on, as it had stuck fast to my back with dried blood from the
beating. I wanted to cry when she finally peeled it off, but I didn’t. There was no
way I was going back in the dark place again.
The area in which we lived was an inner suburb of Sydney, only a five minute
bus ride from the shining harbor. I never saw either the harbor or the city until I
was almost twelve.
I had never had a playmate or another child’s company. When I wasn’t busy
making Mommy’s friends happy, I would sleep or watch television. I had no
idea how to read. In fact, I didn't know what reading was. She made no mention
of my learning to write my name or to write anything at all. I rarely left the
house, and if I did, it was to hurry to the corner shop and get Mommy more
cigarettes. I was not permitted to speak to anyone; she always gave me a note
and exact change. I remember the fat little lady that worked in the shop
sometimes asked me how I was. I never answered; she believed I was deaf or
mute or both. What I was … was afraid.
Apart from those rare five-minute trips to the corner store, I was forbidden to
go outside. My skin had never known the touch of raindrops. I saw the world
through a narrow window and a television screen.
The neighborhood where I lived was considered upper middle class. In the
1960's, older retired couples exclusively occupied the inner city areas. The
double brick homes were large, separated only by a narrow passageway with
lanes that ran across the back fence lines for garbage collection.
I had never seen the neighbors. The comings and goings of so many different
men would surely have been commented upon…behind drawn curtains and
closed doors. I suppose it was the types of men that frequented the place that
discouraged the neighbors from doing or saying anything about the screams. The
men were not scruffy looking, rough types that would have raised snobbish
eyebrows. Oh no. These were respected members of the community.
What could possibly be wrong when the local family doctor was a frequent
visitor? Surely the police officers being there so often meant they were friends of
the occupants - what else could they be? What indeed.
The vehicles the clients drove were not broken down, rusted pieces of junk.
The neighbors' sensibilities were not offended at the sight of Mercedes Benz.
No. My screams went unacknowledged because child abuse simply could not
happen in an upper crust suburb peopled with the wealthy and socially
acceptable. That is a perception that must change.
Forty plus years later and that fallacy remains intact.
I was five when my mother decided I was old enough to have my virginity
taken. I was told I must not cry. I must not scream. I must not struggle. She
waited to see just how high a price she could get for the privilege.
I had, by then, found a safe place inside my mind, a box to which only I had
access. Whenever I was inside it, I was safe. It was large and clean … with air
that didn't smell. It was here I retreated when the need to cry overwhelmed me.
The loss of my virginity was painful; I felt as if my insides were being torn
apart. My mother held my arms above my head, and placed something that
tasted vile inside my mouth. I went to my safe place, but I could still hear the
man grunting, grunting like a fat old pig.
My safe place was not enough that time. I began to scream. Then I blacked
out.
When I awoke, it was dark. I could move my arms again - as long as I did it
slowly. Someone, probably my mother, had placed a towel between my legs, to
try and stem the bleeding. I lay there for a long time, wishing I could just go to
sleep and stay asleep, and never ever wake up again.
Wishing doesn’t make it happen. I was learning quickly that hope was also
not an option.
She came in after a long while, with some ice in a bag. She placed it between
my legs, then took the towel and looked at it, I suppose to see how bad the
bleeding was. The towel was replaced. She didn’t speak. She returned with a tray
of food and a pot of tea. She also had a glass of something cold, which she told
me I must drink, as it would make me sleep. It tasted dreadful, but if it was going
to make me sleep, I drank it.
I’m not certain, but I think it was a glass of whisky. She got in the habit of
giving me a glass or two whenever I had to service the men; it made me more
amenable to whatever they wanted me to do.
Television was my only contact with the world beyond that place. I watched
shows like 'Leave it to Beaver', 'Rin-Tin-Tin', 'Superman', and my favorite, 'The
Andy Griffith show'. The programs showed me an entirely different world from
the one in which I lived. I began to get the distinct impression that my life was
not normal. It appeared to my five-and-a-bit-year-old self that not every kid on
the planet lived like I did.
I believe she never had any intention of my ever going to school. I had only
heard about school from watching television. All the television kids went to
school. All the kids laughed. All the kids came home and had cookies and milk.
That seemed like a simple idea to me.
When I asked her when I was going to school, I remember seeing something
like panic on her face for the first time. She screamed at me and hit me hard in
the face.
“
You stupid little bitch! Who have you been talking to?” She hit me again
before I could answer, and split my lip open. She kept at it until I fell, and then
took to me with the strap. I lost track of time. I have no idea how long I was
unconscious. I think perhaps several days passed.
When I came around, I began vomiting. She was sitting on a stool next to the
bed. I was lying in her bed - that was different. There was a man sitting on the
side of the bed; he took my temperature. He opened my eyes and flashed a little
light in them. He looked familiar; I think he was one of the men who liked me to
make them cum in my mouth.
He spoke to her as if he were angry. “You got lucky this time. She will be
okay, but don't hit her around the head like that again. Do you understand me?”
I had never before heard anyone raise their voice to her. I lay there,
fascinated, and waited for her to hit him.
She began to cry.
That was the moment I began to learn how to hate.
As with everything I had learned up to this point, I learned it well.
She snivelled and whined like a dog. The man looked at me and kind of
smiled. I looked at him, and did nothing.
I never called her “Mother” again, or at least not by choice. I began to call her
the name some of the men called her: “Gwen.”
The first time I spoke to her at all was a couple of days later. She was kind of
edgy and not screaming as much as usual.
I said, “So Gwen, when can I go to school?”
“
What did you call me?”
I said, “Gwen.”
I couldn’t put a name to what I felt … not then. I now recognize it as the day I
began to fight back. Not much, but it was a beginning.
Gwen rarely spoke to me. When she did, it was to issue instructions on what
she expected of me, depending on the desires of the paying clients. If I failed to
give satisfaction, I was beaten. No mention was made of my being able to attend
school.
The man who had been there when I was ill returned. This time he came as a
paying client. He was a family doctor. He also happened to be a pedophile.
He spoke to me differently, as if he weren't happy about what he was doing
but had to do it anyhow.
He asked if she had beaten me again. I refused to answer. It didn’t occur to
me he might assume she had by my lack of response.
He asked if I had good food to eat, all I could say was, “I'm not supposed to
talk to you. Gwen said just to let you cum in my mouth, or fuck me ... if you paid
extra. No talking.”
He looked sad, and he said, “I'll try and help you if I can.”
I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Help me? What did he mean
help me? Help me do what? After he returned to the bar area I heard Gwen’s
voice. She was riled up and screeching. I was unable to understand what was
being said.
My stomach tightened when the front door slammed - a clear sign she was not
happy. Not a good thing for me, as a rule.
She came into the bathroom where I was cleaning myself. She grabbed my
hair and dragged me out backwards, screaming as she slammed me up against
the walls of the narrow corridor.
“
What did you say? What did you say, cunt? Tell me. Tell me now!”
I made myself go limp and said nothing. I couldn’t have spoken anyway
because my face hurt. It was bleeding badly. I could feel the damn tears … shit!
No, I mustn't cry. If I cried it meant the dark room … I mustn't cry.
Too late, and the tears wouldn’t have changed a thing. The best I could do
was stay limp, because if I struggled, it only brought more rage. Also, by letting
my muscles go slack, the beatings didn’t hurt so badly. It also made it harder for
her to drag me.
The dark room seemed smaller every time. The lack of air seemed worse, the
fear more intense. I took myself to my safe place … sometimes it helped me to
breathe. I was learning that if I slowed my breathing right down so that I was
hardly breathing at all, the shaking would stop. While I concentrated on slowing
my lungs, my brain scrambled trying to think of ways to make her happy again,
so the beatings would slow down.
My almost six-year-old mind had not yet learned to understand: there was no
way to make her happy.
I had also begun to dream that someday I would find somewhere to hide.
Somewhere safe and not full of pain.
The bruising from this beating was still very visible, and painful enough that I
couldn’t perform oral sex for over a week. Gwen was furious, constantly
screaming at me that I was faking and costing her money. After one of these
tirades the thought struck me: if I could handle the beatings, I didn’t have to
perform. However, if I didn’t perform, I would be of no use to her at all.
I believed then, and still believe she would have found a way to dispose of me
if I stopped earning her big money.