4 – The Fight for Food
The summer after the burn incident, school became my only
hope of escape. Except for the short duration of a fishing trip,
things with Mother were touch and go, or smash and dash – she
would smash me, and I would dash to the solitude of the
basement/garage. The month of September brought school and
bliss. I had new clothes and a shiny, new lunch pail. Because
Mother had me wear the same clothes week after week, by
October my clothes had become weathered, torn and smelly. She
hardly bothered to cover my bruises on my face and arms. When
asked, I had my readymade excuses Mother brainwashed into
me.
By then, Mother would “forget” to feed me any dinner.
Breakfast wasn’t much better. On a good day, I was allowed
leftover cereal portions from my brothers, but only if I
performed all of my chores before going to school.
At night I was so hungry, my stomach growled as if I were an
angry bear. At night I lay awake concentrating on food. “Maybe
tomorrow I’ll get dinner,” I said to myself. Hours later, I would
drift off to sleep, fantasizing about food. I mainly dreamt of
colossal hamburgers with all the fixings. In my dreams I seized
my prize and brought it to my lips. I visualized every inch of the
hamburger. The meat dripped with grease, and thick slices of
cheese bubbled on top. Condiments oozed between the lettuce
and tomato. As I brought the hamburger closer to my face, I
opened my mouth to devour my prize, but nothing happened. I’d
try again and again, but no matter how hard I struggled, I could
not taste a morsel of my fantasy. Moments later I would wake
up, with my stomach more hollow than before. I could not
satisfy my hunger; not even in my dreams.
Soon after I had begun to dream about food, I started stealing
food at school. My stomach coiled with a combination of fear
and anticipation. Anticipation because I knew that within
seconds, I would have something to put in my stomach. Fear
because I also knew that at any time, I could get caught stealing.
I always stole food before school began, while my classmates
were playing outside the building. I would sneak to the wall,
right outside my homeroom, drop my lunch pail by another pail
and kneel down so nobody could see me hunting through their
lunches. The first few times were easy, but after several days,
some students began to discover Twinkies and other desserts
missing from their lunches. Within a short time, my classmates
began to hate me. The teacher told the principal, who in turn
informed Mother. The fight for food became a cycle. The
principal’s report to Mother led to more beatings and less food
for me at the house.
On weekends, to punish me for my thefts, Mother refused to
feed me. By Sunday night, my mouth would water as I began to
plot new, foolproof ways to steal food without getting caught.
One of my plots was to steal from other firstgrade rooms, where
I wasn’t known as well. On Monday mornings I would dash
from Mother’s car to a new firstgrade classroom to pick through
lunch boxes. I got away with it for a short time, but it didn’t take
long for the principal to trace the thefts back to me.
At the house, the dual punishment of hunger and violent
attacks continued. By this time, for all practical purposes, I was
no longer a member of the family. I existed, but there was little
or no recognition. Mother had even stopped using my name;
referring to me only as The Boy. I was not allowed to eat meals
with the family, play with my brothers, or watch television. I
was grounded to the house. I was not allowed to look at or speak
to anybody. When I returned to the house from school, I
immediately accomplished the various chores Mother assigned
me. When the chores were finished, I went directly to the
basement, where I stood until summoned to clean off the dinner
table and wash the dishes. It was made very clear that getting
caught sitting or lying down in the basement would bring dire
consequences. I had become Mother’s slave.
Father was my only hope, and he did all he could to sneak me
scraps of food. He tried to get Mother drunk, thinking the liquor
might leave her in a better mood. He tried to get Mother to
change her mind about feeding me. He even attempted to make
deals, promising her the world. But all his attempts were useless.
Mother was as solid as a rock. If anything, her drunkenness
made it worse. Mother became more like a monster.
I knew Father’s efforts to help me led to stress between he
and Mother. Soon, midnight arguments began to occur. From
bed I could hear the tempo build to an earshattering climax. By
then they were both drunk, and I could hear Mother scream
every vulgar phrase imaginable. It didn’t matter what issue
started the fight, I would soon be the object of their battle. I
knew Father was trying to help, but in bed I still shivered with
fear. I knew he would lose, making things worse for me the next
day. When they first began to fight, Mother would storm off in
the car with the tyres screeching. She usually returned home in
less than an hour. The next day, they would both act as if
nothing had happened. I was grateful when Father found an
excuse to come down to the basement and sneak me a piece of
bread. He always promised me he would keep trying.
As the arguments between Mother and Father became more
frequent, he began to change. Often after an argument, he would
pack an overnight bag and set off in the middle of the night for
work. After he left, Mother would yank me out of bed and drag
me to the kitchen. While I stood shivering in my pyjamas, she’d
smack me from one side of the kitchen to the other. One of my
resistance techniques was to lay on the floor acting as though I
didn’t have the strength to stand. That tactic didn’t last long.
Mother would yank me up by the ears and yell into my face with
her bourbon breath, for minutes at a time. On these nights, her
message was always the same: I was the reason she and Father
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were having problems. Often I became so tired, my legs would
shake. My only escape was to stare at the floor and hope that
Mother would soon run out of steam.
By the time I was in the second grade, Mother was pregnant
with her fourth child. My teacher, Miss Moss, began to take a
special interest in me. She began by questioning me about my
attentiveness. I lied, saying I had stayed up late watching
television. My lies were not convincing, and she continued to
pry not only about why I was sleepy, but also about the
condition of my clothes and the bruises on my body. Mother
always coached me on what to say about my appearance, so I
simply passed Mother’s story to the teacher.
Months crept by and Miss Moss became more persistent. One
day, she finally reported her concerns to the school principal. He
knew me well as the food thief, so he called Mother. When I
returned to the house that day, it was as if somebody had
dropped an atomic bomb. Mother was more violent than ever.
She was furious that some “Hippie” teacher had turned her in for
child abuse. Mother said that she would meet with the principal
by the next day to justify all the false accusations. By the end of
the session, my nose bled twice and I was missing a tooth.
When I returned from school the next afternoon, Mother
smiled as if she had won a milliondollar sweepstakes. She told
me how she had dressed up to see the principal, with her infant
son Russell in her arms. Mother told me how she had explained
to the principal how David had an overactive imagination.
Mother told him how David had often struck and scratched
himself to get attention, since the recent birth of his new brother,
Russell. I could imagine her turning on her snakelike charm as
she cuddled Russell for the benefit of the principal. At the end of
their talk, Mother said that she was more than happy to
cooperate with the school. She said they could call her any time
there was a problem with David. Mother said the staff at school
had been instructed to pay no attention to my wild stories of
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child beating or not being fed. Standing there in the kitchen that
day, listening to her boast, gave me a feeling of total emptiness.
As Mother told me about the meeting, I could sense her
heightened confidence, and her new confidence made me fear
for my life. I wished I could dissolve and be gone forever. I
wished I would never have to face another human being again.
That summer, the family vacationed at the Russian River.
Although I got along better with Mother, the magical feeling had
disappeared. The hayrides, the weenie roasts and story telling
were things of the past. We spent more and more time in the
cabin. Even the day trips to Johnson’s Beach were rare.
Father tried to make the vacation more fun by taking the three
of us to play on the new super slide. Russell, who was still a
toddler, stayed in the cabin with Mother. One day, when Ron,
Stan and I were playing at a neighbor’s cabin, Mother came out
onto the porch and yelled for us to come in immediately. Once
in the cabin, I was scolded for making too much noise. For my
punishment, I was not allowed to go with Father and my
brothers to the super slide. I sat on a chair in a corner, shivering,
hoping that something would happen so the three of them
wouldn’t leave. I knew Mother had something hideous on her
mind. As soon as they left, she brought out one of Russell’s
soiled diapers. She smeared the diaper on my face. I tried to sit
perfectly still. I knew if I moved, it would only be worse. I
didn’t look up. I couldn’t see Mother standing over me, but I
could hear her heavy breathing.
After what seemed like an hour, Mother knelt down beside me
and in a soft voice said, “Eat it.”
I looked straight ahead, avoiding her eyes. “No way!” I said
to myself. Like so many times before, avoiding her was the
wrong thing to do. Mother smacked me from side to side. I
clung to the chair, fearing if I fell off she would jump on me.
“I said eat it!” she sneered.
Switching tactics, I began to cry. “Slow her down,” I thought
to myself. I began to count to myself, trying to concentrate.
Time was my only ally. Mother answered my crying with more
blows to my face, stopping only when she heard Russell crying.
Even with my face covered with defecation, I was pleased. I
thought I might win. I tried to wipe the shit away, flicking it
onto the wooden floor. I could hear Mother singing softly to
Russell, and I imagined him cradled in her arms, I prayed he
wouldn’t fall asleep. A few minutes later my luck ran out.
Still smiling, Mother returned to her conquest. She grabbed
me by the back of the neck and led me to the kitchen. There,
spread out on the counter top, was another full diaper. The smell
turned my stomach. “Now, you are going to eat it!” she said.
Mother had the same look in her eyes that she had the day she
wanted me to lie on top of the gas stove back at the house.
Without moving my head, I moved my eyes, searching for the
daisycolored clock that I knew was on the wall. A few seconds
later, I realized the clock was behind me. Without the clock, I
felt helpless. I knew I needed to lock my concentration on
something, in order to keep any kind of control of the situation.
Before I could find the clock, Mother’s hands seized my neck.
Again she repeated, “Eat it!” I held my breath. The smell was
overpowering. I tried to focus on the top corner of the diaper.
Seconds seemed like hours. Mother must have known my plan.
She slammed my face into the diaper and rubbed it from side to
side.
I anticipated her move. As I felt my head being forced down, I
closed my eyes tightly and clamped my mouth shut. My nose
struck first. A warm sensation oozed from my nostrils. I tried to
stop the blood from escaping by breathing in. I snorted bits of
defecation back up my nose with the blood. I threw my hands on
the counter top and tried to pull myself out of her grip. I twisted
from side to side with all my strength, but she was too powerful.
gasped. Mother snatched a wash cloth from the sink and threw it
at me. “Clean the shit off your face,” she bellowed as she wiped
the brown stains from the counter top. I wiped my face the best I
could, but not before blowing bits of defecation from my nose.
Moments later, Mother stuffed a piece of napkin up my bloody
nose and ordered me to sit in the corner. I sat there fo r the rest of
the evening, still smelling traces of the diaper through my nose.
The family never returned to the Russian Kiver again.
In September, I returned to school with last year’s clothes and
my old, rusted, green lunch pail. I was a walking disgrace.
Mother packed the same lunch for me every day: two peanut
butter sandwiches and a few limp carrot sticks. Since I was no
longer a member of the family, I was not allowed to ride to
school in the family station wagon. Mother had me run to
school. She knew I would not arrive in time to steal any food
from my classmates.
At school I was a total outcast. No other kid would have
anything to do with me. During the lunch recesses, I stuffed the
sandwiches down my throat as I listened to my former friends
make up songs about me. “David the Food Thief” and “Pelzer-
Smellzer” were two of the playground favorites. I had no one to
talk to or play with. I felt all alone.
At the house, while standing for hours in the garage, I passed
the time by imagining new ways to feed myself. Father
occasionally tried to sneak scraps of food to me, but with little
success. I came to believe if I were to survive, I would have to
rely on myself. I had exhausted all possibilities at school. All the
students now hid their lunch pails, or locked them in the coat
closet of the classroom. The teachers and principal knew me and
carefully watched me. I had little to no chance of stealing
anymore food at school.
Finally, I devised a plan that might work. Students were not
allowed to leave the playground during lunch recess, so nobody
would expect me to leave. My idea was to sneak away from the
playground and run to the local grocery store, and steal cookies,
bread, chips or whatever I could. In my mind, I planned every
step of my scheme. When I ran to school the next morning, I
counted every step so I could calculate my pace and later apply
it to my trip to the store. After a few weeks, I had all the
information I needed. The only thing left was finding the
courage to attempt the plan. I knew it would take longer to go
from the school to the store because it was up a hill, so I allowed
15 minutes. Coming back downhill would be easier, so I
allowed 10 minutes. This meant I had only 10 minutes at the
store.
Each day when I ran to and from school, I tried to run faster,
pounding each step as if I were a marathon runner. As the days
passed and my plan became more solid, my hunger for food was
replaced with daydreaming. I fantasized whenever performing
my chores at the house. On my hands and knees while scrubbing
the bathroom tiles, I imagined I was the prince in the story “The
Prince and the Pauper”. As the Prince, I knew I could end the
charade of acting like a servant any time I wanted. In the
basement, I stood perfectly still with my eyes closed, dreaming I
was a comicbook hero. But my daydream was always
interrupted by hunger pangs, and my thoughts soon returned to
my plan of stealing food.
Even when I was sure my plan was foolproof, I was too afraid
to put it into action. During the lunch recess at school, I strolled
around the playground making excuses to myself for my lack of
guts to run to the store. I told myself I would get caught or that
my timing calculations were not accurate. All through the
argument with myself, my stomach growled, calling me a
“chicken”. Finally, after several days without dinner and only
the small leftover portions for breakfast, I decided to do it. A
few moments after the lunch bell rang, I blitzed up the street,
away from the school, with my heart pounding and my lungs
-38-
bursting for air. I made it to the store in half the time I allowed
myself. Walking up and down the aisles of the store, I felt as if
everybody was staring at me. I felt as though all the customers
were talking about the smelly, ragged child. It was then that I
knew my plan was doomed because I had not taken into account
how I might look to other people. The more I worried about my
appearance, the more my stomach became seized with fear. I
froze in the aisle, not knowing what to do. I slowly began to
count the seconds away. I began to think about all the times I
had been starving. Suddenly without thinking, I grabbed the first
thing I saw on the shelf, ran out of the store and raced back to
school. Clutched tightly in my hand was my prize – a box of
graham crackers.
As I came near the school I hid my possession under my shirt,
on the side that didn’t have any holes, as I walked through the
schoolyard. Inside, I ditched the food in the garbage can of the
boys’ restroom. Later that afternoon, after making an excuse to
the teacher, I returned to the restroom to devour my prize. I
could feel my mouth begin to water, but my heart sank as I
looked into an empty trash can. All my careful plans and all the
pain of convincing myself that I would eat, were wasted. The
custodian had emptied the trash can before I could slip away to
the restroom.
That day my plan failed, but on other attempts I was lucky.
Once, I managed to hide my treasure in my desk in homeroom,
only to find on the next day that I had been transferred to the
school across the street. Except for losing the stolen food, I
welcomed the transfer. Now, I felt I had a new license to steal.
Not only was I able to snitch food from my classmates again,
but I also sprinted to the grocery store about once a week.
Sometimes at the grocery store, if I felt things weren’t just right,
I didn’t steal anything. As always, I finally got caught. The
manager called Mother. At the house, I was thrashed
relentlessly. Mother knew why I stole food and so did Dad, but
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she still refused to feed me. The more I craved food, the more I
tried to come up with a better plan to steal it.
After dinner, it was Mother’s habit to scrape the leftovers
from the dinner plates into a small garbage can. Then she would
summon me up from the basement, where I had been standing
while the family ate. It was my function to wash the dishes.
Standing there with my hands in the scalding water, I could
smell the scraps from dinner in the small garbage can. At first
my idea was nauseating, but the more I thought about it, the
better it seemed. It was my only hope for food. I finished the
dishes as fast as I could and emptied the garbage in the garage.
My mouth watered at the sight of the food, and I gingerly picked
the good pieces out while scraping bits of paper or cigarette
butts away, and gobbled the food as fast as I could.
As usual, my new plan came to an abrupt halt when Mother
caught me in the act. For a few weeks I quit the garbage routine,
but I finally had to return to it, in order to silence my growling
stomach. Once, I ate some leftover pork. Hours later I was bent
over in extreme pain. I had diarrhea for a week. While I was
sick, Mother informed me she had purposefully left the meat in
the refrigerator for two weeks, to spoil before she threw it away.
She knew I couldn’t resist stealing it. As time progressed,
Mother had me bring the garbage can to her so she could inspect
it while she lay on the couch. She never knew that I wrapped
food between paper towels and hid them in the bottom of the
can. I kne w she wouldn’t want to get her fingers dirty, digging
in the bottom of the trash can, so my scheme worked for a while.
Mother sensed I was getting food some way, so she began
sprinkling ammonia in the trash can. After that, I gave up on the
garbage at the house and focused my sights on finding some
other way to get food at school. After getting caught stealing
from other kids’ lunches, my next idea was to rip off frozen
lunches from the school cafeteria.
I timed my restroom break so that the teacher excused me
from the classroom just after the delivery truck dropped off its
supply of frozen lunches. I crept into the cafeteria and snatched
a few frozen trays, then I scurried to the restroom. Alone in the
restroom, I swallowed the frozen hot dogs and later tots in huge
chunks so fast I almost choked myself in the process. After
filling my stomach I returned to the classroom, feeling proud so
I fed myself.
As I ran to the house from school that afternoon, all I could
think about was stealing food from the cafeteria the next day.
Minutes later, Mother changed my mind. She dragged me into
the bathroom and slugged me in the stomach so hard that I bent
over. Pulling me around to face the toilet, she ordered me to
shove my finger down my throat. I resisted. I tried my old trick
of counting to myself, as I stared into the porcelain toilet bowl,
“One … two …” I never made it to three. Mother rammed her
finger into my mouth, as if she wanted to pull my stomach up
through my throat. I squirmed in every direction in an effo rt to
fight her. She finally let me go, but only when I agreed that I
would vomit for her.
I knew what was going to happen next. I closed my eyes as
chunks of red meat spilled into the toilet. Mother just stood
behind me, with her hands on her hips and said, “I thought so.
Your Father’s going to hear about this!” I tensed myself for the
volley of blows that I knew was coming, but nothing happened.
After a few seconds, I spun around to discover that Mother had
left the bathroom. I knew the episode wasn’t over. Moments
later she returned with a small bowl, ordered me to scoop the
partiallydigested food out of the toilet and put it in the bowl.
Since Father was away shopping at the time, Mother was
gathering evidence for his return.
Later that night, after I finished all of my evening chores,
Mother had me stand by the kitchen table while she and Father
talked in the bedroom. In front of me was the bowl of hot dogs
that I had vomited. I couldn’t look at it, so I closed my eyes and
-41-
tried to imagine myself far away from the house. A short time
later, Mother and Father stormed into the kitchen. “Look at this,
Steve,” Mother barked, thrusting her finger in the direction of
the bowl. “So you think The Boy is through stealing food, do
you?”
By the look on Father’s face, I could tell he was getting more
and more tired of the constant “What has The Boy done now”
routine. Staring at me, he shook his head in disapproval and
stammered, “Well, Roerva, if you would just let The Boy have
something to eat.”
A heated battle of wo rds broke out in front of me, and as
always, Mother won. “EAT? You want The Boy to eat,
Stephen? Well, The Boy is going to EAT! He can eat this!”
Mother yelled at the top of her lungs, shoving the bowl towards
me and stomping off to the bedroom.
The kitche n became so quiet I could hear Father’s strained
breathing. He gently placed his hand on my shoulder and said,
“Wait here, Tiger. I’ll see what I can do.” He returned a few
minutes later, after trying to talk Mother out of her demand. By
the saddened look on his face, I knew immediately who won.
I sat on a chair and picked the clumps of hot dogs out of the
bowl with my hand. Globs of thick saliva slipped through my
fingers, as I dropped it in my mouth. As I tried to swallow, I
began to whimper. I turned to Father, who stood looking
through me with a drink in his hand. He nodded for me to
continue. I couldn’t believe he just stood there as I ate the
revolting contents of the bowl. At that moment, I knew we were
slipping further and further apart.
I tried to swallow without tasting, until I felt a hand clamp on
the back of my neck. “Chew it!” Mother snarled, “Eat it! Eat it
all!” she said, pointing to the saliva. I sat deeper in my chair. A
river of tears rolled down my cheeks. After I had chewed the
mess in the bowl, I tilted my head back and forced what
remained, down my throat. I closed my eyes and screamed to
myself to keep it from coming back up into my mouth. I didn’t
open my eyes until I was sure my stomach wasn’t going to reject
my cafeteria meal. When I did open them, I stared at Father who
turned away to avoid my pain. At that moment I hated Mother to
no end, but I hated Father even more. The man who had helped
me in the past, just stood like a statue while his son ate
something even a dog wouldn’t touc h.
After I finished the bowl of regurgitated hot dogs, Mother
returned in her robe and threw a wad of newspapers at me. She
informed me the papers were my blankets, and the floor under
the table was now my bed. Again I shot a glance at Father, but
he acted as though I was not even in the room. Forcing myself
not to cry in front of them, I crawled, completely dressed, under
the table, and covered myself with the newspapers, like a rat in a
cage.
For months I slept under the breakfast table next to a box of
kitty litter, but I soon learned to use the newspapers to my
advantage. With the papers wrapped around me, my body heat
kept me warm. Finally, Mother told me that I was no longer
privileged enough to sleep upstairs, so I was banished
downstairs to the garage. My bed was now an old army cot. To
stay warm, I tried to keep my head close to the gas heater. But
after a few cold nights, I found it best to keep my hands clamped
under my arms and feet curled towards my buttocks. Sometimes
at night I would wake up and try to imagine I was a real person,
sleeping under a warm electric blanket, knowing I was safe and
that somebody loved me. My imagination worked for awhile,
but the cold nights always brought me back to my reality. I
knew no one could help me. Not my teachers, my socalled
brothers or even Father. I was on my own, and every night I
prayed to God that I could be strong both in body and soul. In
the darkness of the garage, I laid on the wooden cot and shivered
Once, during my midnight fantasies, I came up with the idea
of begging for food on my way to school. Even though the after
school vomit inspection was carried out every day when I
returned to the house from school, I thought that any food I ate
in the morning would be digested by the afternoon. As I began
my run to school, I made sure I ran extra fast so I would have
more time for my hunt for food. I then altered my course –
stopping and knocking on doors. I would ask the lady who
answered if she happened to find a lunch box near her house.
For the most part, my plan worked. I could tell by looking at
these ladies that they felt sorry for me. Thinking ahead, I used a
fake name so nobody would know who I really was. For weeks
my plan worked, until one day when I came to the house of a
lady who knew Mother. My timetested story, “I lost my lunch.
Could you make me one?” fell apart. Even before I left her
house, I knew she would call Mother.
That day at school I prayed for the world to end. As I fidgeted
in the classroom, I knew Mother was lying on the couch,
watching television and getting more drunk by the hour, while
thinking of something hideous to do to me when I arrived at her
house after school. Running to the house from school that
afternoon, my feet felt as though they were encased in blocks of
cement. With every step I prayed that Mother’s friend had not
called her, or had somehow mistaken me for another kid. Above
me the skies were blue, and I could feel the sun’s rays warm my
back. As I approached Mother’s house, I looked up towards the
sun, wondering if I would ever see it again. I carefully cracked
the front door open before slipping inside, and tiptoed down the
stairs to the garage. I expected Mother to fly down the stairs and
beat me on the cement floor any second. She didn’t come. After
changing into my work clothes, I crept upstairs to the kitchen
and began washing Mother’s lunch dishes. Not knowing where
she might be, my ears became radar antennae, seeking out her
exact location. As I washed the dishes, my back became tense
with fear. My hands shook, and I couldn’t concentrate on my
chores. Finally, I heard Mother come out of her bedroom and
walk down the hall towards the kitchen. For a fleeting moment I
looked out of the window. I could hear the laughter and screams
of the children playing. For a moment I closed my eyes and
imagined I was one of them. I felt warm inside. I smiled.
My heart skipped a beat when I felt Mother breathing down
my neck. Startled, I dropped a dish, but before it could hit the
floor I snatched it out of the air. “You’re a quick little shit,
aren’t you?” she sneered. “You can run fast and find time to beg
for food. Well … we’ll just see how fast you really are.”
Expecting Mother to bash me, I tensed my body, waiting for her
to strike. Whe n it didn’t happen, I thought she would leave and
return to her TV show, but that didn’t happen either. Mother
remained inches behind me, watching my every move. I could
see her reflection in the kitchen window. Mother saw it too, and
smiled back. I nearly peed my pants.
When I finished the dishes, I began cleaning the bathroom.
Mother sat on the toilet as I scoured the bathtub. While I was on
my hands and knees scrubbing the tile floor, she calmly and
quietly stood behind me. I expected her to come around and kick
me in the face, but she didn’t. As I continued my chores, my
anxiety grew. I knew Mother was going to beat me, but I didn’t
know how, when or where. It seemed to take forever for me to
finish the bathroom. By the time I did, my legs and arms were
shaking with anticipation. I could not concentrate on anything
but her. Whenever I found the courage to look up at Mother, she
smiled and said, “Faster young man. You’ll have to move much
faster than that.”
By dinner time, I was exhausted with fear. I almost fell asleep
as I waited for Mother to summon me to clear the table and
wash the evening dishes. Standing alone downstairs in the
garage, my insides became unglued. I so badly wanted to run
upstairs and go to the bathroom, but I knew without Mother’s
permission to move, I was a prisoner. “Maybe that is what she
has planned for me,” I told myself. “Maybe she wants me to
drink my own pee.” At first the thought was too crude to
imagine, but I knew I had to be prepared to deal with anything
Mother might throw at me. The more I tried to focus on my
options of what she might do to me, the more my inner strength
drained away. Then an idea flashed in my brain; I knew why
Mother had followed every step I took. She wanted to maintain
a constant pressure on me, by leaving me unsure of when or
where she would strike. Before I could think of a way to defeat
her, Mother bellowed me upstairs. In the kitchen she told me
that only the speed of light would save me, so I had better wash
the dishes in record time. “Of course,” she sneered, “there’s no
need to tell you that you’re going without dinner tonight, but not
to worry, I have a cure for your hunger.”
After finishing the evening chores, Mother ordered me to wait
downstairs. I stood with my back against the hard wall,
wondering what plans she had for me. I had no idea. I broke out
in a cold sweat that seemed to seep through to my bones. I
became so tired I fell asleep while standing. When I felt my
head roll forward, I snapped it upright, waking myself. No
matter how hard I tried to stay awake, I couldn’t control my
head that bobbed up and down like a piece of cork in water.
While in my trancelike state, I could feel the strain lift my soul
away from my body, as if I too were floating. I felt as light as a
feather until my head rolled forward again, jolting me awake. I
knew better than to fall into a deep slumber. To get caught could
be deadly, so I escaped by staring through the molded garage
window, listening to the sounds of the cars driving by and
watching the red flashes of planes flying overhead. From the
bottom of my heart I wished that I could fly away.
Hours later after Ron and Stan went to bed, Mother ordered
me to return upstairs. I dreaded every step. I knew the time had
come. She had drained me emotionally and physically. I didn’t
know what she had planned. I simply wished Mother would beat
me and get it over with.
As I opened the door, a calmness filled my soul. The house
was dark except for a single light in the kitchen. I could see
Mother sitting by the breakfa st table. I stood completely still.
She smiled, and I could tell by her slumped shoulders that the
booze had her in a deepsix. In a strange way, I knew she wasn’t
going to beat me. My thoughts became cloudy, but my trance
broke when Mother got up and strolled over to the kitchen sink.
She knelt down, opened the sink cabinet and removed a bottle of
ammonia. I didn’t understand. She got a tablespoon and poured
some ammonia into it. My brain was too rattled to think. As
much as I wanted to, I could not get my numbed brain into gear.
With the spoon in her hand, Mother began to creep towards
me. As some of the ammonia sloshed from the spoon, spilling
onto the floor, I backed away from Mother until my head struck
the counter top by the stove. I almost laughed inside. “That’s
all? That’s it? All she’s going to do is have me swallow some of
this?” I said to myself.
I wasn’t afraid. I was too tired. All I could think was, “Come
on, let’s go. Let’s get it over with.” As Mother bent down, she
again told me that only speed would save me. I tried to
understand her puzzle, but my mind was too cloudy.
Without hesitation I opened my mouth, and Mother rammed
the cold spoon deep into my throat. Again I told myself this was
all too easy, but a moment later I couldn’t breathe. My throat
seized. I stood wobbling in front of Mother, feeling as if my
eyes were going to pop out of my skull. I fell on the floor, on my
hands and knees. “Bubble!” my brain screamed. I pounded the
kitchen floor with all my strength, trying to swallow, and trying
to concentrate on the bubble of air stuck in my esophagus.
Instantly I became terrified. Tears of panic streamed down my
cheeks. After a few seconds, I could feel the force of my
pounding fists weaken. My fingernails scraped the floor. My
eyes became fixed on the floor. The colors seemed to run
together. I began to feel myself drift away. I knew I was going
to die.
I came to my senses, and felt Mother slapping me on the back.
The force of her blows made me burp, and I was able to breathe
again. As I forced huge gulps of air back into my lungs, Mother
returned to her glass of booze. She took a long drink, gazed
down at me and blew a mist of air in my direction. “Now, that
wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mother said, finishing her glass before
dismissing me downstairs to my cot.
The next evening was a repeat performance, but this time in
front of Father. She boasted to him, “This will teach The Boy to
quit stealing food!” I knew she was only doing it for her sick,
perverted pleasure. Father stood lifeless as Mother fed me
another dose of ammonia. But this time, I fought back. She had
to pry my mouth open, and by thrashing my head from side to
side, I was able to make her spill most of the cleaner onto the
floor. But not enough. Again I clenched my fingers together,
beating the floor. I looked up at Father, trying to call out to him.
My thoughts were clear, but no sound escaped from my mouth.
He simply stood above me, showing no emotion, as I pounded
my hands by my feet. As if she were kneeling to pet one of her
dogs, Mother again slapped me on the back a few times before I
blacked out.
The next morning while cleaning the bathroom, I looked in
the mirror to inspect my burning tongue. Layers of flesh were
scraped away, while remaining parts were red and raw. I stood,
staring into the sink, feeling how lucky I was to be alive.
Although Mother never made me swallow ammonia again,
she did make me drink spoonfuls of Clorox a few times. But
Mother’s favorite game seemed to be dishwashing soap. From
the bottle she would squeeze the cheap, pink liquid down my
throat and command that I stand in the garage. My mouth
became so dry, I sneaked away to the garage faucet and filled
my stomach full of water. Soon I discovered my dreadful
mistake, and diarrhea took hold. I cried out to Mother upstairs,
begging her to let me use the toilet upstairs. She refused. I stood
downstairs, afraid to move, as clumps of the watery matter fell
through my underwear and down my pant legs, onto the floor.
I felt so degraded; I cried like a baby. I had no selfrespect of
any kind. I needed to go to the bathroom again, but I was too
afraid to move. Finally, as my insides twisted and turned, I
gathered the last of my dignity. I waddled to the garage sink,
grabbed a fivegallon bucket and squatted to relieve myself. I
closed my eyes trying to think of a way to clean myself and my
clothes when suddenly, the garage door opened behind me. I
turned my head to see Father, looking on dispassionately, as his
son “mooned” him and as the brown seepage spilled into the
bucket. I felt lower than a dog.
Mother didn’t always win. Once, during a week when I was
not allowed to attend school, she squeezed the soap into my
mouth and told me to clean the kitchen. She didn’t know it, but I
refused to swallow the soap. As the minutes passed, my mouth
became filled with a combination of soap and saliva. I would not
allow myself to swallow. When I finished the kitchen chores, I
raced downstairs to empty the trash. I smiled from ear to ear, as
I closed the door behind me and spit out the mouthful of pink
soap. At the trash cans by the garage door, I reached into one of
the cans and plucked out a used paper towel, and wiped out the
inside of my mouth ensuring that I removed every drop of soap.
After I finished, I felt as though I had won the Olympic
Marathon. I was so proud for beating Mother at her own game.
Even though Mother caught me in most of my attempts to
feed myself, she couldn’t catch me all the time. After months of
being confined for hours at a time in the garage, my courage
took over and I stole bits of frozen food from the garage freezer.
I was fully aware that I could pay for my crime at any time, so I
ate every morsel as if it were my last meal.
In the darkness of the garage I closed my eyes, dreaming I
was a king dressed in the finest robes, eating the best food
mankind had to offer. As I held a piece of frozen pumpkin pie
crust or a bit of a taco shell, I was the king, and like a king on
his throne, I gazed down on my food and smiled.
