"The Tragic Tale Of The Boom Boom Kid" I think that was the title of a high school paper I wrote. The assignment was to write a childhood description. I wrote about a little girl and her younger brother playing "cops & robbers" in the bedroom. They found a gun. I described how when they opened the wooden box, the silver gun sparkled in the light. I used great description. I wrote how after the girl accidentally shot her brother on that Sunday afternoon after church, the pool of blood grew and grew, staining the girl's white patent leather shoes. I wish I still had that paper. It was based on true events. The little girl was my mother and she shot and killed her younger brother.
I first heard the story from my sister. She told me that my grandfather told her that my mom killed her brother. Then, less than a year later, I heard those words spoken in detail from the mouth of my mother's mother. We we standing in the apartment next door when she just opened up. She told me that while her husband was in the "war," her kids were playing inside. She was out in the garden, but she heard a gun shot and ran inside. Her youngest son was dead on the floor. She told me how she dropped to the floor and cradled his bleeding body, rocking him back and forth, blood all over.
I recently heard that my mother and her brother were playing in the bedroom I have now. There are two windows side by side with about a 6 inch wooden separator between them. I heard that they found a gun and were taking turns shooting at the wooden beam between the two windows. My mother assumed that the gun was empty
My grandfather had a dream that the Virgin Mother Mary came down and told him that he'd have another son. He beat and raped my grandmother until she had that son. He was his "miracle."
My grandfather was abusive before that, but when he finally came home, he pinpointed my mother until the time of his death, almost 3 years ago. My mother is now 58. So, for at least 45 years of her life, her father punished her and her family for what she accidentally did. My mother told me stories of how she had to kneel on pebbles for hours and scrub her knees until they bled. Her older brother was the lucky one. He left. My mother got away for a few years, but eventually came back to the house where she was born. This house remembers. This house.. I wrote a paper from the perspective of this house, the horrors it's seen in it's many years. God, I need to start writing again! But to get back on track..
A few years ago, I found an old photo album with black and white pictures. There was one of a little boy. A few pages later there was a picture of a little boy in color. I figured the first was of the dead brother and the second of the living younger brother. I asked my mom who they were. She told me the first one was of Stephan. I asked her who that was, pretending I didn't know already. "We don't talk about him." End of discussion.
Up until my grandfather's death, he held the death of his son over my mother. When my father was still alive and living here, my grandfather, the landlord, would make my father do odd jobs for the neighboring two houses on his property. "If he doesn't do _____, I'll throw you all out!!" Then, after my father died, my brother took on that role. He'd say to my mother, "If your son doesn't clean the gutters/change the light bulb/ ___, I'll throw you out on the street!!" Three years ago, the threats stopped. Only because the bastard finally died. If he was still alive today, I'd bet ANYTHING that he'd still be threatening us!! For as long as I could remember, I dealt with my mother constantly worrying that her father would kick her family out of the house. "We have nothing! We can't all sleep in the car! What are we going to do??" So many years of hearing her scared for herself and her family. So many years of being scared myself. Going to elementary school, wondering if I'd have a house to come back to.
I can understand why my mom ended up in AA, my brother turned to heroin, my sister to alcohol and me the same. I just finished a bottle of wine that I opened when I got home from work. With ALL of the insane emotional stress we've been put through, these addictions are how we get through the day. It's how I get through the day. Anyone out there see the Virgin Suicides? Well I could just imagine us all killing ourselves. I don't know about my mom, but I know my sister, brother and myself have all been serious suicidal. I'd think because my mother still feels somewhat responsible for us children, she's blocked those thoughts. I can't imagine how strong she must be to survive all the shit she's been through. I'd love to listen in on her and a therapist!
I can't imagine what my mom had to and still is going through. I am sorry for all that she's gone through.. to still be in this house.. the house where she was born, the house where she killed her brother, the house where my father came back to die, the house where my brother has died, on numerous occasions. This house of pain and death. She thinks that if she moves back into my old room, the room where she was born, that she will die. Birth and Death. Seriously, if these walls could talk... they'd be CRYING & SCREAMING 24 hours a day!!!!! This is where I live.
1:22 a.m. - October 28, 2002
Recent entries:
There's No Place Like Home & Birthday Panic - September 25, 2003
I See Dumb People - August 28, 2003
8 Months Later - August 27, 2003
Christmas Eve - December 24, 2002
The next 140 Reasons Why I Drink!! - December 24, 2002
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