My Prayer was Never Answered (15/73)

I would do my best as the weeks passed, trying to stay strong even though my life was full of so much fear and violence. The domestic abuse between my mother and Jack would still continue whenever they drank, which was pretty much every weekend. My mother, Eileen, began to avoid the violence by not coming home on most nights that they were out. She would stay with a friend until the morning before she would return home. This forced Jack to start to take his anger and aggression out on me when he would return home drunk without her

I began to hate spending the weekends at home because those Friday and Saturday nights turned into my own living nightmare. Each drunken night after the babysitter left, Jack would come into my room turn on the light and yell at me to get out of bed. He would then proceed to take me into the living room where he had a bed made up on the floor in front of the TV. He would force me to take off my cloths and lay beside him on the floor. I could smell the stale scent of whiskey on his breath and it made me want to vomit. The tears would roll down my face as his disgusting hands trailed all across my body.

These nights seemed like they lasted for hours as Jack would make me watch pornography with him and then he would ask me to do exactly what I saw. This was horrifying for me. The sexual acts would begin to escalate on these nights. I was no longer just touching his penis with my hand. He would now force me to put it in my mouth as he would push so hard down on my head that I would choke and barely be able to breath. My body would be shaking with fear but he did not seem to care.

Once he was finished I was allowed to return to bed. As I would crawl into bed, I would pray that I would die in my sleep that night so that I would not have to go through this anymore but my prayer was never answered. I could never understand how my mother could leave me in the care of Jack on those nights. How could she abandon her child with a man that had beaten her so badly in the past. As time passed I began to hate her for not coming home.

Over the next year the sexual abuse would happen 3-4 times a week. I kept trying to hang on to the hope that one day it would end and I would be free. I tried to focus on the good times which were only the times I was with my father. He was my world. The one from whom I drew my strength from. Soon school was going to be out for the summer and I was looking forward to being able to spend two whole weeks; away from the hell of mother’s house, with my Father in British Columbia.