Victim

VICTIM

BY CALVIN D. ELLINGTON.

Victim- someone that is subjected to oppression, hardship, or mistreatment

There are hunters, and there are victims. By your discipline, cunning, obedience, and alertness, you will decide if you are a hunter or a victim.- Jim Mattis.

Chapter 1.

ETHAN

Growing up, I’ve always been a victim. I grew up in the poorest neighborhood in New York. My father was an abusive drunk. He beat all of us, my mother, my sister, and myself. He would go on about how a black man can’t get anywhere in life. My father was a police officer for the NYPD. He was a man who thought everyone was to blame for his shitty situation. He never thought it was his fault that his family lived so poorly. He would take his anger on us.

My mother was his favorite target. There were many times when my father would beat the hell out of my mother for the smallest of things. Sometimes, she would be late coming home from work, and she was accused of cheating on him. He hated it when he didn’t know where his family was. My mother stayed with him for years.

My mother once told me she only stayed with him because she had nowhere to go. I’ve never understood her reasons as a child. All I saw was Daddy hurting Mommy. I couldn’t understand why Daddy hated us. I asked my mother why Daddy didn’t leave if he hated us.

” Oh baby,” Mother would say, hugging me deeply. ” Daddy doesn’t hate us. He’s just angry,” she would always defend him. As I grew older, I realized she was a victim. My father was a victim, too, a victim of himself. My mother was his victim.

I became a victim of his when I was 10 and my sister when she was 6. I remember when my sister broke a plate. The plate cracked, and pieces went everywhere. My father was angry at my sister and smacked her in the face. I acted on instinct. I lunged at him. I could knock him down, due to surprise only, and land as many punches as my little hands could throw.

“Leave her alone,” I yelled in anger, which gave me confidence. But it wasn’t enough. My father pushed me off; I’ve never seen him so angry. That was the moment that I learned what fear was.

“Boy,” My father said, anger dripping in every word. ” Have you lost your goddamn mind. Take your shirt off.” Father took his belt off and twisted it in his hand.

I was frozen in fear; I couldn’t move, I’ve seen what he’s done to Mother. I backed up till my back was against a wall. ” I’m sorry, Daddy,” I said on instinct. I was rewarded with a slap to the face.

” Boy, don’t make me say it again.” Father slapped me again.

That is when my mother came home from work. She saw what was happening and asked me what had happened. But my father wasn’t happy with that.

“Bitch don’t you see I’m disciplining your little shit stain of a brat” My father grabbed her by the hair and threw up off me. ” I’ll deal with you later, now, Ethan Shirt. Off. Now,” Father growled.

I did as I was told and took my shirt off. All I could do was cry. My mother just watched as my father whipped my back with his belt. The pain was too much for me. I wanted to run away, but I knew if I did, the pain would be much worse.

” Little shit, this is my house,” Father said in between hits. ” If any of you lay a hand on me, I’ll kill you. My house, do you get this through your dumb ass skull.” by now, he was panting. He was tired of whipping his oldest child.

My sister was crying in my mother’s arms. All she knew was her big brother was being hurt. Mother was trying to calm her down. She wouldn’t look at me, knowing she couldn’t help her baby boy.

As for me, I was a crying wreck. All I could do was cry. I could feel the blood dripping down my back. I’ve never felt pain like that. That was the night I became a Vitim. And I have been a victim ever since.

Over the years, the abuse became a regular part of my life. Teachers would notice but say nothing; I would tell teachers what happened, but they would just brush me off. They couldn’t believe that a cop would do such a thing. When they told my parents I was making up stories, my father was livid. The beatings I got from that weren’t as bad as the beating I got from that night.

I even tried calling the police in secret. Two officers came to my home and questioned me and my sister. At first, I was hopeful that all this pain would be over, but sadly, that was short-lived.

“Sorry for the misunderstanding, Lawson,” one of the officers said to my father. ” Didn’t realize this was your address.”

“Sorry about that,” Father told the other officers. I don’t know why the boy thought it was funny, but I’ll talk to him.” He smiled and laughed with his fellow cops.

“Tell Captain Lopez I’ll see him next week.” he smiled as he waved them off. I had never seen him so happy and friendly. I knew it was an act; I knew what would come next. My father looked at me with anger and disgust. I knew it was coming, but I still wasn’t prepared for the slap the slap that came next.

“How dare you embarrass me!” Father was furious, more furious than that night. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” I honestly didn’t. At first, I thought he was just mad that I tried to get him arrested. I never thought he’d be more mad than that first night years ago. I saw him pacing back and forth. He grabbed me by my hair. His grip was so tight that I thought he was going to rip out my hair.

“After all these years of breaking my back to those fucking assholes down the drain.” he threw me against the wall. I saw the raw fury in his eyes, but he wouldn’t budge. I knew it would be a lot worse.

“I was up for a promotion; I could have been a sergeant.” he ranted. ” And you upped and ruined it. They gonna use this as another example of why black men can’t get anywhere in this life. All because you went and ran your mouth.” by this point, he took his belt off and started whipping me. He was careful not to hit anywhere visible. My sister was thankfully spared his rage. After that night, every time something went wrong at work, I would be blamed for it.

Sadly, my father was as bad of a cop as he was a father. Whenever his boss yelled at him for his screw-up, he’d blame me for it. He blamed me for costing him his promotion. His bosses wouldn’t promote someone accused of abuse, he told me. I was the reason we were so poor; I cost my father his dream, and he remained every time he beat me.

Soon, I became numb to the abuse; it was just a part of my life. My mother was used to it, and my sister was slowly getting used to it. I thought running away would be my only hope, but I remembered why my mother stayed. I had nowhere to go; I was just a child with nothing. My choices were to live a life on the streets or live in a violent home. The choices were obvious to me. I took the abuse because I had no other options. This was my life; like my mother, I had to take everything my father had to give.

Everything changed on my 13th birthday. I remember everything about that day. June 1st, 1998, the worst day of my life. My mother was making my favorite meal. Spaghetti and meatballs with fried chicken. To be honest, I didn’t care what we ate. I got my greatest birthday wish. The dinner was just the three of us - my mom, sister, and myself. It was the happiest I’ve been in years. My father had to do the midnight shift at work.

But, like all good things, I came to an end. This one came to a bloody end. I was in my room late at night when it happened. I heard my mothers scream; I thought it was just the usual beating my father gave my mother. That was when I heard the gunshot; without thinking, I ran out of my room to check what happened. I slipped on something wet and fell. When I got up, I was covered in blood, My mother’s blood. She was there in front of me, a bullet in her head. I screamed louder than I ever did before.

“Shit fucking shit” I barely heard him over my own screams. “Dumb bitch made me do it.” I thought he was talking to himself.

When I stopped screaming, my dad looked at me, and for the first time, I saw regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he actually apologized. I couldn’t ever forgive him for this. Before I could even say anything, he turned his gun on himself and pulled the trigger.

Blood splattered on my face, and my father killed himself right in front of me. I was in shock; I couldn’t move. The next day, my sister found me covered in our parents’ blood. She screamed, but I didn’t respond. She ran and got our neighbors, who saw me, a small child unmoving in a pool of blood. The police came and questioned me, but I said nothing. I said nothing for almost a month. The therapist I was assigned said I was catatonic. The trauma of seeing both my parents die was so traumatic that I was in a constant state of catatonia.

Eventually, I was able to talk about what happened. I told the police about my father and how he abused us. At first, they didn’t believe me. At that point, I took my shirt off to show all the bruises that I got over the years.

“This is what that fucking bastard did to me,” I screamed, tears in my eyes. “He beat me till I was bloody, then moved on to my mother and sister. If any of you did your fucking jobs, I still have my mother.” I was beyond angry. Everything I went through, and they still thought my dad was innocent.

My sister and I moved from foster home to foster home for years. It was worse than living with my father. I would rather be abused every day than live with those people. But I couldn’t; first, I was my father’s victim. Now, I was a victim of the system. I always thought to myself, will I ever be truly happy.