ecovlke's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 8: Docteur Jekyll et Monsieur Hyde Chapter 8: Docteur Jekyll et Monsieur Hyde "...and tied round the neck of the bottle was a paper label with the words "DRINK ME" beautifully printed on it in large letters."--from Lewis Carroll's ALICE IN WONDERLAND. Yes it is Friday, and we all know what that means. So pull up a chair, pour yourself a drink, and I'll start us off on tonight's excursion. Let's see, where shall we go...uh,okay I know. I shall take us back in time. Back before high school. Back to around the year 1971. The scene: a child's bedroom. Cast of characters: a drunk uncle, a milquetoast father, an angry mother, and a confused young boy. It was the night before my first day in the third grade. After my bath, I was in my bedroom lying on my bed drawing. All of a sudden the door flew open with such fury and speed, that it would have normally startled me, if not for my uncle's familiar face spontaneously materializing were the door had just been. I thought that I had no reason to be frightened. This uncle was my new father's youngest brother. He was always making me laugh. He would play with me, take me to movies, and was a lot of fun. Until that night, I was unaware of his Jekyll/Hyde association with alcohol. With a voice that I was accustomed to hearing crack jokes he said, "You are a pig." I laughed and replied, "No you are." Before I realized what was happening, I was thrown across the room, slamming into the closet door, and crashing head first into the carpet covered concrete floor. I hit the door with such force, that it broke off of its hinges. I had no time to cry or ask why before he grabbed me by my throat, and dragged me to the bathroom. Again he repeated that I was a pig. He threw me into the bathroom and locked the door. He then yelled at me to turn on the water and fill the bathtub. This I would not do, so he punched me in the face. Punched me like I was a man. I screamed for my parents, but I heard no response. Again he yelled at me to turn on the water to which again I refused. Another fist to the head. More screams and begging, but no response from the other room. I knew if I turned on the water, he would have drowned me. I don't know how many blows I took before I heard my father's voice on the other side of this mad man. The other side of the locked door. The other side of the world. He quitely, calmly asked my uncle to open the door. He refused this and replied that I was a pig and needed a bath. I begged for my father to come to my aid. From the other side of the door my father's voice, and all of my hopes dissappeared. The sense of hearing was replaced by the sense of touch. The sense of pain as another fist found my skull. The sense of sight began to hide behind a haze, behind bloody tears and swollen purple flesh. There was blood to occupy the sense of taste. Then I heard my mother's voice. An angry voice that seemed possessed with all of the anger of the world. A controlled dangerous anger. It was a voice that was familiar, yet strange. A voice that threatned to kill him if he did not unlock the door. I had never seen my mother angry. Never heard her threaten anyone. Neither had my uncle. When he unlocked and opened the bathroom door, this 4 foot 11 3/4 inch woman loomed larger than my uncle's mear 6 foot. The look of fear in his face was greater than mine was after his fist first found my eye. He let go of the grip that he had on my throat, and ran out of the house. My father's first excuse was he didn't think that I was actually being hurt, that my uncle and I were just playing. My father's other lame excuse for not helping me was that since he was so mad, that he was afraid that he would hurt his little brother if he broke open the door. So he returned to his chair to watch TV. I went to bed that night and then in the morning to my first day of third grade with hand shaped bruises on my throat, bruises on my head, and with swollen lips and eyes. Through this I was still a happy child. I forgave and forgot with that innocence that only a child seems to possess. Something that I still do to this day. My father died in June of 2001. My uncle was there. He is an old man and his features resembles those of my father's more now than they did 30 years ago. Maybe because of this, and the fact that I was already missing my father, that we sat beside each other at the dinner following the services, and we laughed and told jokes, like old times. But he never looked me in the eye. My mother died in July of 1995. She had not forgiven or spoken to him since 1971 . 7:58 p.m. - 2001-09-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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