This Ends Now

"Hello. My name is Amanda and I am a survivor."

It was the most difficult sentence I ever spoke.

It was 1977 and I just turned 13. My mother became my best friend, the kind of person you could tell anything to. The kind of person who wanted to see you acquire all life had to offer. The kind of person you wanted as a friend.

The problem was that I wanted a friend, but I needed a mother.

My father started molesting me soon after. He forced me on birth control and threatened to leave the family (my mother, my little sister, and myself) destitute if I said anything. My father was a monster. He was filthy. He smelled of gin and cigarettes. His touch sent shivers through my spine. I became paralyzed when he came home. He would come to me and he expected me to perform on demand.

I felt disgusted, so I told my best friend. I told my mother, only that my mother wouldn't let me speak of it.

"A good girl doesn't speak of that." Or "a good girl shouldn't tell lies." Once, my mother indicated that my father earned the money and was entitled to some leeway, so I should be thankful. What she should have said was, "get your coat, we are going to the police."

My mother knew the man she married.

On my 14th birthday, my father came into my bedroom and began forcing himself on me. He kept on hand over my mouth, when not in use. Either way, I could not scream. My parent’s bedroom was only two bedrooms away from mine, separated by my little sister's room. She was now 12 and my father told me to cooperate or she would be next.

It was late that night. Soon, my mother got out of bed and began to walk the hallway toward my bedroom. The floor in the hallway squeaked with each step. When my father heard my mother coming, he ceased raping me and froze in terror. He still kept his hand over my mouth.

My mother heard the obvious noise from my bedroom cease as she ceased walking. She was only steps away from my unlocked door. She could have found the courage to take those final steps. She could have opened the door. She could have delivered us from this evil. It could have all ended just like that.

But it didn't.

I continued being raped by my father all through high school and for two years later. It let this happen so my little sister didn't have to make that decision.

On the day she left for college, I left for good.

I told my mother before I did. I begged her to come with me. We could make this right.

She wouldn't go. She never had the strength to go. Two weeks later, after my father beat her to death, it didn't matter.

"So why am I telling you all of this? What difference does it make?"

Now he was scared. The puddle below his foot slowly grew as he began to weep.

Once I have them in lockup to get a confession, I always succeed or I will burn down the world in which scum like him lives and let God sort it out.

This ends now.