Chapter 2 - Remi Ryan- Part 2- Remi's Story

Part 2

The following years, well, they were like meshed together. Like one big blur you don’t want to remember but its hard not to forget

My father blamed himself, always saying if he didn’t fight with Jessie if he didn’t push him towards those boys, if only he told him he loved him just one last time maybe everything would be different. Sometimes by just the words my father would say, looking at me in disgust, that he almost wished it was me and not his boy.

That same picture I had once remembered to be happy, “my mom was cooking in the kitchen. It was like one of those old time movie flicks where the husband comes home the wife was wearing a kitchen apron covered in flour or something she had been concocting up and she had a spoon in her hand, my dad swooped her up as he kissed her neck. I scrunched up my nose as it was kissy kissy time and he smiled. He looked so in love and happy; the happiest it had ever been.” Had faded with each passing day

My father took up drinking, and drinking became his family now. The drink consumed him, made him someone I never thought he could become. The once great chef and happy father, the one that knelt down grabbing me in his arms swigging me around was faded into a lost memory that was never found again. He wouldn’t come home until all hours in the morning; yelling at my mom why his supper was so cold. I would hide under my bed as he and her would fight. . My dad ended up losing his job becoming a major uncontrollable abusive drunk. He took out his hurt and pain on me and my mother and the drink empowered him to think he was some great hulk.

My mother never understood the pain he felt, the guilt and she grew in a deeper depression, taking all his blows. She felt she had some part in not helping her son, not speaking up not stopping him for supper; anything and everything came to mind and she just slipped away from reality.  This lead to my mom dropping all her responsibilities and drinking day and night to push away the pain from my father, from losing her boy, the guilt she too felt and from everything being put on her shoulders. All the savings being blown away from bills, to make sure we didn’t lose it all, to his and her drinking to more than they could have every imagined.

I was 5 when I started tucking her into bed, when I cleaned the house and myself things from pouring my own cereal; dressing for school wearing things that would hide the markings my dad would leave when he grabbed me too hard or pushed me out of the way. It was like when my brother died I had died with him, they didn’t treat me like their other child but more an outsider looking in. Like why did I have to live and their precious boy have to die.

I would catch my mom all the time in my brothers room clenching his baseball jersey lying on his bed crying for hours on end, I could only close the door and do the responsibilities she let slip away; I tried to make it better for her so when dad came home he wasn’t upset at her for not a clean home or bills being put into the mail box; luckily I would catch my mom at just the right times to sign the checks so I could make them out. Though I may have only been 5 I was a lot smarter than they all could see. I would get things put away, walk to the grocery store and back home bags to the brim my arms could take

People would talk, even ask if I needed help or if I was okay. I would of course lie, how could I tell them what was going on when I could barely understand it myself. I didn’t want more grief for my parents than they were already taking but maybe, maybe if I had just opened my mouth and spoke. Just letting anyone and everyone who did care to listen know so they could have gotten them help or me out of their, but I was mute. That was my gift and my downfall in the end when my brother died, I became mute as I was a ghost of my own self.

That ghost became more and more apparent in school, school officials became to suspect something was going on; and really with no fault of my own, they had let the police know and reports were on file left and right; which got cps involved.

Whenever some important people came or my dads parents or my moms, my dad was especially gifted in hiding the truth. Portraying a good father and great husband fooling them all in the end, my mom dressed the part even in her phased eyes, no one would ever think in questioning twice with their act.

It was the Summer of 2005 when CPS had been called and came to the house, but somehow my father got word with friends in high places and as they inspected a very clean house, that I had done hours prior, inspecting my room, theirs and me; the words didn’t fit the situation. The last thing I remember with my father was the fury in his eye as the doors closed behind the CPS worker. It didn’t take but mere 10 minutes he was over me his hands upon my neck, my eyes turning red and I had heard my mothers frantic voice screaming to let me go.

I was maybe 10 or so my father had been arrested for almost killing me.  I can remember my father had been arrested on countless other occasions for drinking, and things having to do with drinking; my mother was afraid of him and to call the cops for domestic abuse was just not the thing to do in her world but this time was different. This time she finally snapped out of whatever haze she was in and saw she would almost lose me.

I barely remember the sirens ringing in my ears. Left and right people surrounded me. The worker in the background consoling my mom who was crossed arms and telling the truth, her lips trembling with each word that came out. My father fighting the cuffs and jumping getting out of hand, and then it went black.

I woke in a hospital bed, hooked to so many machines. I knew it had gotten bad. Momma was at my bed side holding my hand, and jumped up as she saw my eyes open grabbing me and remembering to stay calm and hold me gently as I winced. The brace on my neck rubbing my nymphonids raw. She backed up and smiled. “Momma isn’t going to lose you, I promise things will change.”

And things did change, the once drinking alcoholic mom who didn’t act like one, was setting up lunches and making sure I got to school safely. My father had been charged with aggravated assault with the use of a deadly weapon; his hands. And sentenced with felony charges, on top of his duis it gave him over 45 years behind bars.

My mom ended up meeting some rich guy who she ended up marrying. HE cleared her up of any and all drinking, not even a sip from her. That once happy memory of a man and his wife resurfaced. But with all the new changes for them, old ones lingered in me. I was happy she had changed, but the once happt go lucky little girl that sat on the floor hugging my brother one last time, swigging with my dad one last time, seeing my mom with a shimmer of hope for her family was one last memory that would be with me and in my nightmares. Nightmares that seemed to never go away. #TBC