Читать книгу Little Girl Lost: Volume 1 of the Little Girl Lost Trilogy - Cindy Hanna - Страница 6

CHAPTER 1

Sally swings to and fro in the hammock. The sound of rustling leaves, blowing in the wind, causes her to look up. The crisp air caresses her naked breasts, making her nipples stand erect. She begins—slowly— gradually building momentum, backing off at just the right moments. She has chosen the perfect “toy” for this sexual journey and brings herself repeatedly to the edge of climax. She increases the vibration, escalates its rhythmic use and continues, almost in frenzy. Tomorrow she will be raw and sore, but that does not stop her. Faster and faster she pumps until she is dizzy with delight.

The inevitable orgasm approaches and she tenses with anticipation. Her heart rate increases. Her breathing becomes heavier. Her stroking more frantic. She is like a wild animal driven by primitive instinct, unable to stop herself. Her need to climax supersedes all else. The sensation is both excruciating and extreme. Never wanting it to cease, she propels herself further into oblivion.

“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, my fucking God!” she repeats through guttural moans and sighs in a near sacred chant. Unable to pull herself back from the edge this time, she allows herself to climax. The sensation explodes throughout her body, causing her to reverberate uncontrollably. Still she cannot stop. When she becomes so sensitive that it hurts, she gently continues on. As she attempts to cry out to her God, Sally begins stuttering just before she reaches her second body-wrenching orgasm.

Exhausted, spent, she leans back, as though a troublesome weight has been placed upon her, and feels herself slipping into that threatening pit known as her past. She offers no resistance, knowing that fighting is futile. She has to surrender herself to the memories, observe them, relive them, mourn them and release them. In blind allegiance, she closes her eyes and allows the images to pass freely through her mind. They flood her consciousness and cause her body to shake from their reality.

* * * * *

Sally, age seven, boldly advances to secretly view them. They are fighting again, but then, they always fight.

Why can’t they get along? Can’t even go three days without a blow-up.

Recently, however, the disagreements have been escalating in frequency and intensity. Sally is uncomfortable with the things her parents now commonly say to one another.

Don’t they know? The name-calling and fights—they scare me. Don’t they care?

Sally is aware that her home life is far from normal and longs to have the life of other kids. In an attempt to experience this normalcy, she craves a sleepover with her best friend, Julie Anders, and approaches her mother. “Ma, can Julie spend the night?”

Her mother begins to stammer, “Oh, gee…honey…I don’t know if that’s…such a good idea. You know how your father can get….”

“I know. You won’t even know she’s here,” Sally continues.

“Pleeease! We’ll stay in my room and be as quiet as mice.”

Her mother sighs. “Oh, all right, but only if you promise to stay out of your father’s way. We don’t want him getting agitated.”

Sally rushes to her mother and gives her a hug. “Thank you, Ma!

We’ll be perfect angels, you’ll see.”

Sally hopes that her parents will behave. She even times the sleepover for the day after an argument, thinking her parents might be too weary from battling the night before to begin another episode.

True to her word, Sally and Julie are well behaved. Her parents try to make the sleepover a success. The girls are in Sally’s room when they hear her father call, “Does anyone want some of my special popcorn?”

Sally’s eyes light up as she scrambles out of her room, calling over her shoulder, “Come on, Julie. My daddy makes the best popcorn in the world! You’re gonna love it.”

The girls run to the kitchen, where they watch Sally’s father work his magic. They marvel at how he patiently waits until the oil heats to just the right temperature before gently pouring in the corn kernels.

They begin to pop as he skillfully shakes the pan back and forth over the burner. Giggling, Sally exclaims, “Oh, look, Julie. They’re bursting into fluffy white clouds.”

Julie closes her eyes and inhales. “Mmm…. It smells wonderful!”

Sally’s dad really works his magic. No one can add melted butter to popcorn like he can. Others either make the popcorn soggy or the butter is not heated enough and leaves salty lumps of un-melted butter on the kernels.

“Watch this,” Sally says. “It’s the best part, Julie. My daddy does this perfect—every time.”

They marvel as he drizzles hot melted butter over the popcorn, and then gently tosses it in the bowl. Smiling, he hands the freshly popped treat to his daughter. “There you go. Now see if that isn’t the best– tasting popcorn you’ve ever had.”

Sally’s heart soars. Her father loves her. He is not a bad guy— just has a nasty temper. Happily, she accepts the bowl, pops one of the fluffy buttery morsels into her mouth and comments, “Mmm, it’s delicious, Daddy!”

Sally gives her dad a hug and then skips off to her room with Julie, where they nibble their treat. They enjoy their sleepover, listen to music and munch on their snack for quite awhile before Sally hears the definitive elevated voices of her parents, indicating the onset of an argument. She gets up and, in an effort to drown out the inevitable sounds, nonchalantly increases the volume of her stereo, stating, “I love this song!”

An argument breaks out—a bad one. The raised voices of both her parents can be heard despite the music. Julie becomes upset.

“Sally, I want to go home!”

“Don’t leave. They’re just fighting. They’ll stop soon.”

Sally manages to convince Julie to stay a bit longer, but soon her father’s raised voice and the anxiety in her mother’s prove too much. Julie, seeking the safety of her own house, goes home before the hitting begins. That is the last time Sally invites a friend to spend the night.

That’s it! I’m sticking to spending the night at my friends’ houses.

Their parents know how to behave.

Sally is angry and harbors many hateful thoughts towards her parents.

Why don’t they just grow up? Other kids’ parents get along, why can’t mine?

At times, Sally seriously questions who is more mature, her and her younger brother, Eric, or them.

Not all of her childhood is bad. In between their parents’ fights, she and her brother live a relatively happy life. Running with the “pack” of kids from their neighborhood, they hurdle over split-rail fences, climb mature trees and scale chain-link barriers, as a shortcut to the street behind them. They live in Covina, California in one of the post-war houses that are evenly spaced up and down the tree-lined streets—a perfect Mayberry town. One can almost imagine Sheriff Taylor and Barney Fife waltzing out of the police station at any given moment while Aunt Bee calls them in for a slice of homemade pie. People leave their doors unlocked and attend church faithfully. Conformity is each community member’s number one priority. It is the mid 1970s, when neighborhood kids play outside in large groups until the streetlights come on.

Sally and Eric love being physical. They run and play hard every day. Excelling at physical activity, they dominate their peers whether playing a game of freeze tag, roller-skating, riding bikes, skateboarding or swimming. The siblings are first to be chosen when kids select and break into teams.

Their sidewalk-lined street is on a hill. A patchwork quilt of two-foot squares forms the pathways. The trees flanking the walkways are huge with many of their roots having lifted up sections of the concrete pads. The neighborhood kids love these uneven portions, for they create a rollercoaster track perfect for biking, skating or driving wagons over.

The latter is Sally and Eric’s favorite. They drag their red Radio Flyer wagon to the top of the hill. Turning it around, Sally gets in the rear, straddling it so her feet can hang over the sides like brakes. Eric climbs in front and sits cross-legged. His job is to steer with the handle. Once he is settled, Sally raises her feet and off they go, gaining speed, as they hurtle down the hill at a blinding pace. They race over the root-raised sections of concrete, squealing with delight, as their tummies drop, and Eric swerves from one edge of the sidewalk to the other. Sometimes they crash—tumbling out of their wagon, belly-laughing uncontrollably.

The best part of their neighborhood has to be the ice-cream truck.

Every afternoon it heralds its approach with its twangy music broadcast over a blown speaker. Hearing it from the next block over, the children scramble to gather their pocket change. Sally and Eric always get the same items: she a Big Stick and he a root beer Popsicle.

Those who purchase treats share with the ones who have no money.

There are never any hurt feelings or selfishness. No one is ever left wanting. The neighborhood kids all look after and take care of each other like an extended family.

Sally ventures out of her room and down the hallway, where she peeks around the corner to spy on her parents. She notices the crimson coloring entering her father’s face. It begins at his neckline and creeps its way up his face, blending almost seamlessly with his hair color.

The veins in his neck begin to stand out. Next, the pulsing vein on his forehead will appear.

Oh, God! Time to get away. Don’t want to be near him. Danger!

Sally’s churning stomach begins to reject what she ate earlier for dinner. She swallows back vomit as she notices her father’s arms swinging violently in the empty air called space. His gesticulating intensifies along with his Irish temper. She knows his arms have much power behind them. Each family member has taken his or her turn being her father’s punching bag. He does not care whom he turns his wrath upon when he gets in one of his moods—whoever is within striking distance suffices.

Grimacing, Sally knows that his mighty hands long to come in contact with something that they can slug until there is nothing left to pound.

Get away! Leave! Save yourself!

The beatings are bad enough, but the thrashings…they are terrifying! Consumed by one of these furies, Sally’s father has no self-control and beats his victim until they escape or are too physically broken to respond. Sally senses this level of fury and her father’s need to batter someone.

How long will it take before he kills one of us with his rage?

Guiltily, she is thankful that she will be spared this time.

Thank God, I’m outside his reach.

It will be her mother’s turn. Based on her father’s ire, the attack promises to be far worse than any Sally has endured—of this she is certain. She feels inadequate, knowing that she cannot help.

Why isn’t there someone to save me and make this nightmare end?

This person doesn’t exist, though.

How can I make this monster go away before he destroys us? How?

Feeling helpless, she turns and walks silently down the hallway towards her room. Catching sight of her image in a mirror on the wall, she stops, transfixed by the gruesomeness reflected back at her. The entire left side of her face is distorted. Her left eye is nearly swollen shut, encircled by a blended palette of black, purple, red and yellow splotches where the worst of the bruising is. Absentmindedly, her hand raises to caress the area. The minute it makes contact, her image transforms back to normal.

Another memory.

Sally grimaces.

That’s what he did to me last time.

Turning from her reflection, she continues down the hallway, passing her brother Eric’s room. He is preoccupied, playing with G. I. Joes.

Look how he’s gone to great lengths to arrange his soldiers just so. He’s trying to block out what’s happening around him.

She pauses for a moment in his doorway, marveling at his innocence, envying his naiveté. Eric, her junior by two years, is still too young to fully comprehend what is wrong with their family.

I know he’s aware that something is wrong, but am grateful that he doesn’t know just how dangerous the situation is. I’m sure he’s affected more than he lets on. Wish I knew how to explain things to him without hurting him.

She does not though, so she remains silent.

Every day I feel like a soldier just trying to survive on the battlefield.

Sally feels like a soldier. Eric plays with toy soldiers. Their situation is always on their minds, and yet their father’s anger is the elephant never discussed. It sits plainly in the middle of the room, taunting and mocking them, yet they cannot acknowledge it, for if they do, they will have to face just how dire their situation is.

Better to ignore it and stay out of the line of fire as much as possible.

Sally cringes, remembering the family members’ endless array of broken bones, bruises and casts. Apparently they all sucked at staying out of her father’s way.

Her father’s anger has taught Sally well. She has learned to keep a low profile and keep her head down on the battlefield, lest she get it shot off. It has educated her to walk the line and do exactly what is expected and demanded of her—always—without question or having to be told twice.

In school this serves her well. She is an overachieving student who goes above and beyond what is asked of her. Her teachers often openly praise her efforts and use her work as an example to the other students. She loves getting their approval and seeing her work posted on the bulletin boards with A+’s written across the top. Sally lives to please. Her exuberance also serves to keep up the appearance that all is well on her home front. People think she has a normal family— straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Sally shakes her head.

Normal is just a state of mind.

She leaves her brother’s doorway and continues down the hallway. Entering her room, she closes the door behind her. Seeking refuge, she climbs in bed and pulls the covers over her head in an attempt to block the sounds coming from the other room. The disagreements always follow the same pattern: the raising of voices, amplified shouting and accusations followed by the unmistakable sound of the first blow.

Sally hears the terrible yelling escalate in volume. She cannot bear to listen to the ear-piercing cries, knowing what will come next. The pitch becomes higher and shriller until she can no longer hear herself think. This is far more intense than other battles.

Somehow I must stop this. I have to do something!

Summoning courage she does not know she possesses, she leaves the safety of her bed, opens her bedroom door and yells, “Stop! Stop fighting!”

Her outcry is met with momentary silence. The awful, dreaded pause in the storm makes her want to disappear.

What have I done?

Her father rounds the corner in an instant, his face a blotchy crimson red. He rushes down the hallway towards her with alarming speed. “What?! What did you say?!”

Terrified, Sally slams and locks her bedroom door. Backing away, she hopes it will hold, but knows it will not. The explosion comes—as expected. Shards of splintered wood erupt into her room as her father crashes through the door and races towards her. crashes through the door and races towards

Blessedly, her memory stops there.

* * * * *

Sally opens her eyes and begins picking up her masturbatory toys. That’s what her husband James calls them—toys. She swings her legs over the side of the hammock, puts on her robe and, toys in hand, walks back to the house, shivering a bit at the cool breeze.

Crossing the lawn, Sally realizes that although it haunts her, she feels at ease with her past. There she knows what will transpire, where, when and how it will occur. Like a frequently viewed movie, she watches the reels play out repeatedly, gaining a certain amount of comfort in knowing how they will end.