1. I love the rainy days. In Florida, one rainy day can turn into a rainy week. The
sights of raindrops, and sounds of thunder brought me absolution, and I knew that
everything would be okay if only for a short while. Some people find the rain cold and
irritating, but those rainy days were the happiest days of my childhood. They always
came when I needed them the most. The days without rain were an agonizing drought,
which robbed me of my will to survive. My shoulders ache and burn from the weight of
my shame. The rain can wash away many things, but it can’t wash away the past. It
can swallow you whole without mercy or compassion, and it lingers like mud in the
springtime. I have tried to run through my past to reach the finish line, but my legs get
stuck, and I have to stop to pull them out. Just when I think I may be winning the race I
turn to see that I am still at the starting line. Having my shame on my shoulders, mud on
my face and scars on my body it seems impossible to escape my past or win the race
for my soul.
I was six years old when it began, a mere child with all the wonder and
innocence that you would expect from a girl my age. My favorite toys were the dirt in the
driveway and the trees in the back yard. I loved being outside and exploring the area
around the dirty, green trailer. I never had a Barbie doll or tea set; I didn’t have many
toys at all. I can only remember a few, one of which was a headless G.I Joe doll. There
was also a little fadded red wagon that was missing one wheel. I was content with the
things I had because I knew no other life. It’s amazing how satisfied you can be with so
little when you are young and still use your imagination. Nature becomes more than just
trees and flowers, and you see it as a vast world that begs for exploration. Sometimes I
would use the little red wagon to collect worms that I found under rocks and logs. I

2. would pretend to be their queen, and grant their requests. I built them little mud houses,
and made streets with small pebbles, and in my little world I was loved. It was one of the
only times I felt as though I was in control of something in my life.
My mother locked me out of the house for most of the day and when I got
hungry, I would walk to the front porch to see whether any food had been left out. On
good days, I had a sloppy PB&J sandwich and I was excited when it had strawberry jelly
in it because it was my favorite. It lay there on the dirty slabs of the porch drying out
under the sun, and if I didn’t get to it soon enough the ants would beat me. Next to the
sandwich was an old crumpled soda can that was filled with milk. Sometimes if I were
close enough to the porch when the food was set out the milk would still be cold. My
meal was less than desirable, but it was good to have something in my belly.
Our house was an old beat up trailer with duck taped windows and a lopsided
dirty brown porch. The inside was filthy and garbage lay on the floor in nearly every
room. The smell of cat urine hung heavily in the air, and it made me sick to my stomach.
Snotty tissues, toilet paper rolls, and cigarette butts littered the living room. Maggots
feasted on old moldy food in the kitchen and dirty dishes were piled sky –high on the
counter top. My mother never washed dishes, so we always ate on filthy plates and
drank from scummy cups. Once a month my mother bought paper plates and we used
those for diner. It was great to have clean dishes to use because I didn’t worry about
chewing on dried remnants of old meals. Diner time was the only time of day when we
were all in the same room, and the tension was almost unbearable. My body would
sweat from the rush of heat that moved through me like a wave, and it reminded me of
being on a hot beach, baking in the sun. As I ate I was wishing for a reprieve from the

3. agony of family time. Once diner was over we all resumed our normal positions in the
house. My stepfather usually sat watching racing or home improvement shows on PBS.
The old fuzzy TV was always on but was rarely watched. He just stared at it blankly, like
a zombie without the drive to eat brains. I confined myself to my room as much as
possible leaving only to use the bathroom. My room was a horrible peach color, and the
paint was chipping off the walls. My bed was a single mattress on the floor in the corner
of the room. The springs stuck out in different places, and it smelled musty like clothes
that had been in a draw too long. I had made a room in the closet. I had a sleeping bag
on the floor and flashlight hidden under the heater grate. I had found few pages from
Green Eggs and Ham and The Very Hungry Caterpillar in a ditch and looked at them
often because they brought me good dreams.
Everyday I woke to the roar of the TV and the crackling sound of my mother’s
voice asking for a cigarette. Before I ventured out to use the bathroom, I would place my
flashlight and book pages back in the heater grate so they would not get thrown away.
My mother would stumble into the kitchen kicking garbage and grumbling along the
way. She would put a cereal box, and a gallon of milk on the table and then walked past
me without a word. The old crinkled box of Trix had a small layer of dust on the top. I
didn’t want to use a dirty bowl so I just ate the cereal out of the box. It was old and stale
and when I bit down it felt like biting down on a cardboard box. It was like deflating a
balloon and then trying to chew on the rubber that was left behind. I had to search
through the garbage in the kitchen to find a cup, and I wiped the residue off with the
bottom of my shirt. I spilled the milk once, and it ran down the table creating a waterfall
that flowed over the edge onto the floor. I turned around, and my stepfather’s face was

4. red as he looked at the mess. He grabbed me by my hair and dragged me to my room.
He pulled the sleeping bag out of the closet, shoved me inside and began kicking me
relentlessly. He heaved the entire time as if his lungs were about to explode. He
sounded like a thirsty dog panting on a hot summer day. The pain was intense and
stung my legs and torso. I covered my head with my hands but not long after it began I
felt blood drip from my eyelid onto my cheek. I heard footsteps enter the room, and then
I heard my mother’s raspy voice. He screamed at her to get the hell out. It seemed as
though it went on for an eternity. Then all at once it was over, and the pain began to
lessen to a dull pulsating feeling. I found myself unable to leave the bag because I didn’t
know whether he was waiting for me like a vulture waits for a dying animal to drop.
When I finally left the bag, he was gone. I dried my eyes with my dirty shirt and put the
sleeping bag neatly back in the closet and closed the door.
I had been in school since I was seven years old, and I started in kindergarten
despite my age because I was not at the first grade level. I enjoyed having friends, and
being away from home all day was the best part. We painted sailboats, and flowers, and
I finally read Green Eggs and Ham in its entirety. My teacher was very kind, and she
always called me sweetheart. It was surreal to experience true kindness and when I
discovered true friendship and love I began to understand how bad my home life was.
When I reached the age of nine my body bore the evidence of my pain. Cigarette burns
littered my upper arms and thighs. My back was veined with the dull red scars left by
tree branches and I had a very large scar on my head. At school, I took great care to
never let my scars show because I didn’t want my friends asking me about it. The last
thing I wanted was for them to think I was weird. There were already kids who were

5. mean to me. One boy, Scotty Melkins, was always calling me bucktooth and pushing
me down in the halls. One time he tripped me and I fell into my strawberry Jell-O. He
had spiky blonde hair and always wore a shirt with a scull or guitar on it. He was in a
different grade then I was so I only had to worry about seeing him in the halls. School
was good despite Scotty Melkins’ hatred of me. After all, I was used to being hated.
As school progressed and I moved through elementary school it became harder
and harder to conceal my scars. While I was in gym class, my teacher noticed the scar
on the top of my head and confronted me about it. My stepfather had told me if anyone
inquired I was to say that I fell into the ditch by our house and cut my head on the
culvert. So that is what I told her, but she looked at it doubtingly. She asked whether I
had gone to the doctor and gotten stitches, but I think she knew the answer before she
asked the question. The scar was very wide and long and bore no evidence of even a
single stitch. Despite any reservations she may have had about the scar, she never told
anyone.
When my twelfth birthday rolled around the physical abuse had escalated to
sexual abuse. School became very difficult, and I started to pull away from my friends.
My shame had reached new heights, and I couldn’t stand being around the kids who
talked about trips to Disney World and bowling with their parents after school. They
didn’t have a clue that my after school activities were decidedly darker than theirs. I was
extremely jealous and began to lash out. Around Christmas time, I started to see the
school councilor in the hopes that she would help me cope. Her name was Mrs.
Chandler, and her office looked like happiness on steroids. It was filled with motivational
posters and little figurines with smiling suns and dogs hugging cats. She had a calm

6. slow tone of voice, and it was weird to me because it was as though she was devoid of
all feeling. Despite her oddness she grew on me, and I began to confide in her a little
too much. When I began seeing her I didn’t say anything about the abuse, but
eventually I got careless, and she got suspicious. She started asking questions, and I
was completely unprepared to deliver any good lies. I froze, just like the day I had
spilled the milk, and after that session I did not go back to see her again. She must have
been concerned because the principle approached me at the end of the school year and
asked whether he could stop by my house. A hot feeling ran down my body and I
started to tear up just thinking about what to say. Before I could answer, the secretary
stuck her head out of the door and told him he had a phone call. Once he was gone, I
ran out the double doors like a rabid dog was chasing me.
I had been dreading summer break ever since the first day of school, and now it
was here. I could only hope to stay under the radar enough to make it to the next school
year alive. By the age of fifteen the sexual abuse had slowed down greatly, and I got the
feeling that I had begun to disgust him. I had become very good at mentally shutting
down during the nights he did visit my room. The smell of his breath was horrible. I got a
whiff of beer and weed every time he heaved into me. I became a hollow empty shell,
and I cared about nothing, least of all myself. Depression and self-loathing are a twisted
bed of thorns that constantly dig into your skin. I became lost in my own mind and that
was a terrible place to be for someone who had embraced apathy. I did not yet know it,
but my mind would soon lead to my salvation.
And now as I sit here waiting for my third parole hearing, I can’t help feeling
satisfied with what I have done. He had begged me to stop, but I could only look upon

7. him with indifference. I had cried out for mercy once too, and his answer was always the
same. He called out for my mother at one point, but she never came to his rescue. I
remember wondering how that made him feel. I hoped it made him feel as hopeless as
it had made me feel. I had looked to her for relief once too and had heard only silence,
and now he would hear the same lonely silence I did. I never said a word to him. For the
first time in my life, I had power over him. He felt a life’s worth of pain, and I relished in
seeing the twisted look on his face. It had taken me almost a lifetime, but I had finally
looked true evil in the face, and I beat into a bloody pulp. He would no longer create
hollow little girls; I had made sure of that. He would never hold any power over me
again and for the first time in my life I felt complete. I find comfort in knowing that I can
move on in safety and security. I have a new life now. I care little for a life outside these
walls. My freedom now exists behind the bars of my cell. It may not be everyone’s
dream life, but I have a window, and I can see the rain.