TennTrade
Publishing
|
But Listen
|
Gina Ann Day
|
12/12/2012
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No child is beyond the reach of a hungry
predator. A nerve singing account of
abuse arouses the reader to battle against real life monsters.
|
Gina Ann Day about words
But Listen
by
Gina Ann Day
Chapter 1 Foundation
of Qualms
Inhaling the heavy scent of honeysuckle
drifting through the screen window, I slipped my pale body down into the
steaming tub. I sank past billowing clouds of bubbles intended for a shield of
security. My heart raced wildly as prickly senses forced my attention toward
the jiggling doorknob.
Blast
him! He had figured out how to jimmy the lock.
A
fierce scream ached to be released from the depths of my persecuted soul. I
leaped in the blink of an eye in wrenching horror, silencing the inner fear as
I cleared the warmth of the water into the cool air. I had barely enough time
to grab the handle of the bottom drawer to the vanity and jerk it into the path
of the door as it inched open, thus refusing passage to this egotistical
intruder. Whew, me oh my!
Settling
just as fastback into the caressing warmth of the bathwater, a hostile glance
towards the ceiling vent was forced. It was necessary to confirm the washcloth
was still stuffed into the crevices which were wearisomely placed there earlier
before. I nervously undressed.
Oh,
no! The cloth was falling fast, brushing past my cheek as I dodged it, landing
lightly onto my bare shoulder now covered in phenomenal goosebumps. Cringing,
I dunked under the water.
The
nerve of these two family members enraged and terrified me as one was not aware
of the other stalking his victim at the same moment as he. For an adolescent
child, my life of torment began around the age of five before adoption into
this allegedly better home and safer environment. Our loving then-single
teenage mother was often scoffed at for living in poverty.
Whom
were they kidding? This lifestyle had actually become a struggle for the
survival of my sanity. Whom am I kidding? At times, the battle was a fight for
life itself. It was clear to only me as to why I became such a rebel, only
because nobody paid attention. Memories are not always treasures.
From
the wrap around porch on a breathtakingly scenic hillside in Tennessee, Lydia,
the heroine settled into her porch swing to tell the inside-out upside-down
story concerning her abusive life. I was ready to write her story.
Prepared
to do battle with an intriguing contentedness about her, she amusingly
rearranges the piles of quilted pillows under and around her. I was sitting on
pins and needles, anxious to get going.
After
several moments, with misty eyes and a radiant smile, Lydia continues her
powerful story. After gazing far into the distance past the fussy birds arguing
at the nearby feeder, down through the whispering woods toward the audible
bubbling creek several hundred feet below us, and beyond to a long-ago time
when all was not as it seemed to be when one child’s pain and anguish went
unheard.
In
a unique storyteller fashion, she begins as I capture the pictures drawn into
my receptive imagination by her words, knowing ahead of time she may not have
all the answers, but she knows the roads well. It was her hopes our journey
together would reveal all answers.
I
can remember few snatches of my earliest childhood memories. They are etched
deep into the folds of my mind as vividly as if they had occurred most
recently. Did you ever bump your toe one day and the next still feel the
throbbing? Yeah, that is the way it is with everything concerning my life. My
mind shares the weight of these haunting recollections with my heart as they
pop up persistently with a will all their own.
The
scenes are my only links to a childhood without photographs, a beginning to the
very fragile life I walked. Mind you, they appear within a fog or cloud, jolted
at random without a known cue, never changing specifics through all my years.
The one thing that stood out above all else was my beautiful Mother full of
love.
After
reminiscing, Lydia states that her story is as she perceives the sequences to
be accurate and that the very first recollection places her in the Deep South.
It took years for its awesome meaning to sink in, but you will have to wait
until the end of the journey to come to the same conclusions as she. As if
inspired, she continued.
This
is my road, my life in bits and pieces, with thought-provoking messages woven
in for the doubting Thomases. My story might save your child’s life. I believe
you will become educated pretty quickly.
Now
full of passion for her mission, Lydia opens her heart wide with an optimistic
childlike, not childish, approach and lets the story unravel at a mesmerizing
pace. Do not miss a beat as we journey into the past to provide for the future.
Once
upon a time, not too long ago, there was an innocent little
girl………………………………………………
Enormous
plush trees, dressed in their lacy green finery, lined the one end of the ocean
sized cotton field. Cotton, cotton everywhere cotton! Plump, soft balls dotted
the rows of branches where the cheerful three-year-old girl skipped between
them excitedly holding dear to the large hand that led her along.
The
hand bore multiple distended veins creating dark paths across his sunbathed
flesh. The owner of the hand remained faceless, unknown, always leaving the
imagination to sculpt and re-sculpt. The image of a strong male, she obviously
adorned with trust, always materialized. It led her down the field towards a
gathering of folks, colored and white. No disrespect intended, but that was how
we were taught to relate to each other.
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