Darkness' Delusions

Prolougue

Prologue

We all have childhood memories. Some are light, some are dark.

Mine is dark.

I can still feel it sometimes. I really can. I can still feel the rough hands that have been worn down by hard work and stress, push my scrawny little body through the doorway of my bedroom—or maybe it throws it. Because my body goes from one side of the room to the other where my legs carelessly scrape against a white dresser with red, blue, and yellow handles for its drawer. The scrapes will heal, but they hurt. That same hand then raises in the air, clutching a beaten down wooden rod, and with anger portraying in the owner's face, comes down with a great force and strikes my bottom. But it doesn't always hit my bottom—at times, it hits my legs, my shins, my arms, my feet, my shoulders, sometimes even my back. The rod, called a paddle, hits, and hits, and hits against me. I constantly wonder when it will stop—if it will stop. I hope it's soon. The pain is excruciating; every blow of the paddle leaves a stinging ache. The hand is powerful. It is strong—much stronger than me. Still stronger than me. I don't think I deal with pain correctly—I cry too much. I'm a wimp. The tears are running down my eyes like I'm a little baby, like I can't handle this. Is it wrong to not be able to handle this? This is my punishment, I deserve to be spanked. I should be able to handle this then. But still, I try to get away, maybe I can scurry under my bed if I'm fast enough. But I'm not fast enough, the owner of the hands' voice shouts at me to stay bend over. I quickly get into the demanded position, and with my bottom stiffened trying it's best not to flinch, I frightenly  wait for the next hit. It comes. And I wince and scream again like a little baby; this hit possessed more intensity than the previous ones. The tears are now streaming down my face like a waterfall, they infiltrate my mouth and I taste the salty liquid—that and the liquid that comes from my runny nose. The hitting finally ends and the hand's owner is just about to leave the room but before they do, I look resentfully into their face. And I hate who the owner of the hands is. No, I don't hate them. I hate who it has to be.

It is my mother's hands.

                                                                            ~~~~~~~

My sister holds a knife to her stomach. I do too. But I'm not sure where to hold it? My stomach or my heart? Which would kill faster? On a cartoon show my older sisters were watching that they weren't supposed to be, I remember seeing a lady stab a knife in her heart. So, it must be the heart. Though I wouldn't know for sure, I'm only five and my sister's seven. Her name is Lynda, and mine is Enza....well, actually Enzaverlina but that's way too long for people to remember. I bring the knife up higher, all the way until it's to my heart.

"I wish I could kill myself." Lynda says wistfully to me, holding the long sharp knife steadily to her stomach. We're in our kitchen right now but we're actually supposed to be in bed. Everyone else is in their room sleeping.

"Me too." I look into her sad brown eyes that reflect light from the light bulb that hangs above out kitchen sink and narrow my gaze. "I hate living here! I just...I just want kill myself so bad." I repeat the desired wish.

"Mom gets so mad at us and she's always making us clean. I just hate it so much when she cleans our room." complains Lynda, dropping the knife to just her side.

"Yeah, I know." I agree with her. I drop the knife to my side too. I don't think there'll be any killing tonight. "We're always getting spank'ns for everything. I hate this house and being in this family. I wish I was in different one."