I'm not sure if I should be posting a disclaimer here or not, so better safe than sorry: The following contains a level of violence some may not be equipped to handle.
If you missed Part 1, you can view it
here.
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That’s when I heard mom come running down the hallway. Oh no. If only I could cast a spell and disappear. This is going to be very bad. “What happened,” she asks as she enters the room. Then she sees the fallen hutch between my brother and I. One of the doors had busted off a hinge and the far side support closest to my brother, had freed itself. My heart raced. The adrenaline was pumping again. At the same time, Jeremy and I raced out our stories. Jeremy sped, “She did it! I didn't do anything!” I rattled as fast as possible, “We were playing hide-n-seek and I found him and then he got mad cuz I scared him and he threw my hutch off my desk, Mom!”
Jeremy and I were the two good kids in the house; the youngest and closest in age. We usually obeyed and didn’t get into too much trouble. We got busted more for cursing than anything. We learned much from our older brothers. However, when it came to antics between the two of us, mom and dad never knew who to believe.
Mom started yelling at us for being so destructive, “I can never have anything nice in this house! Anytime I have anything, something happens and it’s broken. What next?” Mom was furious. She told us to both come into the living room with her. She sat down on the couch; it was positioned against the front picture window. In a surprise attack, she grabbed Jeremy by the arm. She spanked him for a good, long time. He screamed and cried out. He pleaded that he didn’t do it, that it was me who tried to kill him with the hutch. When she was done with him, she grabbed me. She turned me over her knees and held my upper body down as she reeled back with her hand. I reacted by jutting my hands back behind me, trying to cover my butt. It was an effort to lessen the blow-by-blow of her swats. It was futile. If she wasn’t hurting my butt, she was hurting my hands. Something was going to be stinging no matter what. I screamed and cried for her to stop. “Jeremy's a liar! This isn’t fair! Why would I break my own things?” None-the-less, she continued. I screamed, I kicked each leg has hard as I could only to emerge exhausted, crying and defeated.
When she was done, she stood us in front of her; both of us sobbing and sore. She asked us, “Now I want to know the truth. Who broke the hutch? If you don't tell me, I'll spank you again and see if someone wants to tell the truth then.” I told my tale of truths while my brother continued to spin his yarn of lies. I begged my mother to listen to me. He didn’t resign his stance. She repeated the spanking, this time bare butts were the object of attack. It wasn’t enough pain with clothing on apparently. She stood us in front of her where she restated the previous ultimatum. Yet again the same story was given from both sides. My brother looked incredibly guilty, but maybe it was simply because I knew the truth. I’m not sure.
Mom got even angrier. One of her children was lying and she wasn't going to allow that to happen. Maybe this was retaliation due to her older boys acting out and being so terrible. Maybe she had a bad day. Maybe it was hormones, but regardless of her reason she did what she did.
Dad came inside to find out what all the commotion was as he had just retuned home from work. Mom told him what she knew. He took of his leather belt. That thing was dreaded by us like the Ebola virus. I shook knowing what was coming. The belt was three inches wide with huge holes in it for the buckle. This made the impact all the worse because the escaping air would allow for a harder snap to the region. I begged and pleaded. I offered my world for them to stop and understand that I was telling the truth. My brother still wouldn't resign his position. Dad stepped up to the plate and took his turn with each of us. This was the worst yet. Bare butts, leather belt, strong male arms. We each objected during the whipping as we had with mom. We were so exhausted from crying and fighting that we could hardly fight back anymore. The belt hit my butt like a hot iron. It sounded like Indiana Jones was in the room showing off with his long horse whip; only it was my dad announcing authority with his thick leather belt. I could feel the air rushing at my bottom before the belt would hit. The tissue that was once my butt was now a large area of red, raw and swollen tissue. I tried to put myself in another place. I needed to be numb. I tried to laugh. I wanted to be strong. I taunted my father in between screams with laughter, my little snippet of power. This only made his temper boil. I wasn’t laughing for very long.
When he was done, we lay on the floor crying. It felt like interrogation by torture. Neither of us wanted to give in. It had to be pride, stubbornness or maybe both. I was in pain and so drained that I sobbingly concocted a confession. My brother was told to go and play. He was spared, leaving me the martyr. When I was done with my final spanking, I crawled down the hallway to my room. Moving anything below my chest made my butt throb with pain. I was crying and dragging my beaten body towards my own personal sanctuary, my bedroom. I pulled my feet through the doorway and kicked the door shut. I summoned all the energy I could to get to my knees so I could lock the door. When safe inside my room, I surrendered myself to the arms that were the clothes on the floor. With my pants below my butt cheeks, I gave up consciousness. I realized for the first time that justice was only about perception, not truth. This was something that would repeat itself throughout most of my life.
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