HANDS OF PAPER: Part one
My dear friends,
I have a story that needs to be told before it is too late for soon I am to become ill and may find that I am too weak to even begin.
It is a horror story.
But, this is a horror story of the truest sense. It is not of monsters, demons, and imaginary beasts, but, of the very horrors humans can do to one another under normal conditions. How they can turn a fairy tale into a freak show.
 |
| The day I decided to finally gather my memories, good and bad. |
It was all so long ago, twenty years coming soon, but, everyday I feel the memory of it wrapped around my throat smothering me with this horrible shame. Two years ago I decided to finally tell someone.
They say that memories fade, but, I can vouch, that some will become an entity that will haunt you for the rest of your life.
Most stories start at the beginning, but with razor sharp memories that slice through at the most inopportune time, I shall have to start with the most vivid ones and let the rest of them trickle throughout.
1st memory: The House:
When I first arrived at the house, three years previous to my marriage into the family, I was
plump, naive, and pimple-faced, not quite twenty-one, and had never had a drink before.
My sexual experiences were limited to inappropriate friendships and two rapes, one causing me to have to walk home three miles in the pitch dark, beat and bruised, and the other resulted in job loss and a false pregnancy.
I was of high school education and had been raised by adopted parents of mixed beliefs, one being a Catholic and the other an Atheist.
Despite, the unfortunate incidents of my childhood, ( as I called them..) I was sure who I was.
I laughed easily, wore funny hats, and played tennis with myself against the backside of my dad’s workshop .
Television was a rare experience in my life though, so, my new boyfriend’s 25 inch screen had all the lure of a treasure map promising to bring wealth and excitement to my life.
Two large barn doors opened revealing a maze inside the house; an odd twisty turn adventure that started in one half of the house and lead through hallways into random bedrooms, living rooms and other additions, and finally ending in the other half of the house occupied by his brother and their family.
When his parents moved back into the center of the house, after years of living away, the walls were re-painted in circus side show, pink and purple, along with the addition of an assortment of animals, including a pot belly pig that often stole the family holiday dinner from the counter.
The rugs needed constant cleaning due to all of the animal dander, fleas, urine and poop that had dried on in matted clumps. It was hard not to step in a puddle or a mess when one wandered about at night to see if the pig had left anything for any of us to eat.
The smell of the entire house was pungent with garbage,since it was illegally dumped out into the backyard. cigarette and marijuana odor was frequent as well because the windows and it’s disturbingly purple curtains were almost always kept closed.
It’s funny how I can’t actually remember anyone lighting up inside the house,but the evidence remained in the coke cans that were throughout the house which were filled with cigarette butts, and surprisingly, urine.
The bathroom was hideous, which is perhaps why it was not utilized more often. Despite my efforts to clean it, my mother-in-law’s horrid addiction to purge dieting and laxatives made it impossible to keep the loose stools, vomit and feces from ruining the floor, and toilet seat.
I never did understand if she was using the bathroom so often to purge and relieve herself, why I often woke to find her and the now, huge, pot-bellied pig, out peeing together in the yard. The men, I shared this disgusting bathroom with, at least used the toilet, but, to find them clothed was a different matter.
I can’t even begin to describe how doing something as simple as going to the washroom became a game of intimidation, and humiliation. The task of cleaning the feces and scum was always left for me, and like a middle class, Cinderella, I was mocked and taken for granted.
The kitchen was my sister-in-laws domain until the parents moved back. Everything benign and ordinary was removed and in it’s place a huge collection of strawberry themed pots, pans, dishes, towels and silverware filled the reddish-pink room to the point of clutter and chaos. Dirty dishes and moldy food were left everywhere. The only thing that had organization was the refrigerator which was obsessively filled with Tupperware, all lined up on each shelf and clearly labeled as to who bought and paid for what.
There was no joy of sharing or trust, only the cold exchange of an institution.
When things became unbearably ugly between people over simple things like ownership of a sprouting potato or unwashed greasy pans purposely hidden in the oven for others to clean, a second kitchen was built in my living quarters out of scrap wood and discarded pipe.
Shelves were added later when enough money was saved for cheap chipboard, and then came a counter top of simple beige marble and a microwave to do the majority of cooking.
From then on, the only time I entered the main kitchen, was to use the oven.
In the early stage of my relationship there, my sister-in-law often left porno magazines, and catalogs filled with sex toys, and lingerie, on the kitchen table for me to pick up.
A slight turn into that middle ground territory was always a shocking surprise of inappropriate and intimidating objects.
My childhood innocence was almost certainly gone by this time and replaced by lusting curiosity and disgust.
I reluctantly wore the frilly negligees and above the knee football jersey’s with both embarrassment and pride as I snuck through the house late at night. The same ones that were shown in the revealing catalogs. The same ones my sister-in-law enticed me to wear for reasons unknown to me.
It wasn’t long before a wall was put up which completely cut off any access to her half of the house and also ended my access to the forbidden universe deliveries.
I had wore my last nightie according to her. Her plan had backfired. I am still uncertain of it’s purpose.
The starts of an bloody, ugly, ten year war begin at this moment, all because I had shown my knees.
I was confused and baffled by her behavior. She reminded me very much of my mother who often encouraged me to do things that were highly inappropriate then blame me of the ill effects they caused.
.jpg)
.jpg)
