I was in my bedroom minding my own business in the late afternoon playing with my stuffed animals. My mother came in and pulled me off my bed by my hair and dragged me into the kitchen and forcefully pushed me into a chair at the kitchen table. She was ranting about her missing lipstick. I had no idea what was going on or where her missing lipstick had gone. By this time I was definitely crying. In the beginning, I told my mother I had no idea what she was talking about. After fifteen or twenty minutes of her slapping me and ranting at me I have become mute. There was nothing left for me to say. My father came into the kitchen through the garage after a long day at work. The look on his face scared me. You would think I would be used to this behavior by now. I was shaking by this point and unable to say much of anything due to the fear and pounding in my heart. My mother asked me again what happened to her lipstick. I had already answered on numerous occasions that I did not know. I sat there quietly and say nothing. This made my father very angry.
“Don’t just sit there. Answer your mother,” my father said.
“I don’t know what happened to your lipstick,” I finally answer.
“Keep your mouth shut if you can’t say something right,” my father said.
I was often confused as a child and this was why. Also because I did not understand my parents behavior and I did not like their behavior very much. I couldn’t understand how two people who were supposed to love me could treat me this way. My father grabbed my armed and pulled me out of the chair and then dragged me into my bedroom again. My stuffed animals lay scattered about my bed where I had been playing only half hour before.
“I’m going to teach you how to treat your mother properly and answer her questions correctly,” he said.
I knew what this meant from long experience. I hoped he would use the end of the belt without the belt buckle. The belt buckle always hurt worse. He did not. He undid his belt and removed it quickly with that wooshing sound the belt always makes as it comes off pants. I was already crying. The first blow was always very hard. It came down across my rear end with the ruthless sting of the buckle on my skin. The belt would land again and again on my back side. All the time with my father saying thing like this will teach you to be so rude to your mother. This will teach you not to take things that didn’t belong to me. And he would keep going until his rage subsided. I knew my father was taking his frustration from work out on me, but it didn’t help how I felt. It felt like one hundred blows. It was usually closer to fifteen. He finally left, screaming.
“Stay in your room. No dinner for you tonight,” he said.
I was not hungry anyway. I could barely walk. The welts hurt something awful. It would last a couple of days. Did I mention this was summer? No school for me tomorrow. My parents weren’t stupid. They knew how to abuse their two children and cover their tracks.