Into Ashes

As always, I was tense and wary on my way home back from school at about 5pm in the baking heat. I never knew what would be waiting for me: a beating? House chores? Would I have to cook dinner, clean my brothers' mess or would I be able to read and study?
Dad was not at home when I got back -he used to get back for dinner at about 7pm, if he was not out with one of his mistresses.

When I was little, I used to look forward to it; He was my hero. As a fast-growing teenager, I would wet myself in fear.
Dad liked it. He was in control.

Mum was in the kitchen and, as usual, shouted at me as soon as I got in. "Get yourself changed and come help me". No chance of reading and studying, then. Oh well, never mind. I had got used to doing it at 1 or 2am with a flashlight in bed, hoping that Dad wouldn't hear me or that my sister wouldn't tell tales, otherwise Dad would burst into the bedroom letting out all his rage onto whatever part of my body.
My brothers were out playing and my sister was watching TV; I had always wondered why they picked on me and the others never helped out. Once I asked why and the reply I got wasn't very pleasant. I never asked again.

Anyway, I went to my bedroom -which I shared with my sister- to get changed and put my school stuff away.
Nothing could have prepared me for the shock and the pain that was to come: that was far far worse than any beating that Dad had ever given or was yet to give me.

I stood there, paralysed, heart beating fast, sweating cold, anger and fear building up. I was looking at the empty space in my wardrobe were I used to store my little treasures in a lovely wooden box.

above right: Anguish, Glenna Goodacre

Like any teenager, I used to keep notes and letters from friends and sweethearts, photos, a few diaries -I used to write a lot- and souvenirs such as dried flowers and sweet wrappers, among other things. In there I also used to keep my favourite books, or whatever I was reading at that time. It was the only space which was truly mine in that house.

All gone.
With tears in my eyes and my heart in my mouth, I ran into the kitchen to ask Mum what had happened. She gave me a nasty look; she didn't love me much those days.
"What would you expect? You had nasty, filthy things in there. We read and looked at it all, your dad and I, whilst you were at school. It didn't take much for us to decide to burn it. It was disgusting"

I couldn't believe my ears. I didn't want to believe my ears.
"You've burnt my things? My writings? My letters and photos and books? How could you? What gave you the right to rummage through my things and destroy them all? They were MY things, they were MINE, I don't mess about with YOUR stuff!!!!"
Mum could look so evil when she wanted to, and she did then. She scared the shit out of me, even though it was always Dad who delivered the beatings. She had a triumphant smile, she had hurt me deep, she had achieved her ultimate goal without laying a finger on me: I was totally destroyed inside.

Hurt, angered and outraged, I went to the back yard in the hope of being able to save something, I knew Mum was being serious. I found nothing.
After checking every corner at every possible place, I spotted a pile of ashes lying on the hard-soil pavement across the road. Grandma lived across the road, and Dad used to park his car in her garage.

above left: Anguish, Gary Frier

I crossed the road without looking, without thinking.
My whole world came crashing in on me. It was all there, still burning, still hot. They might as well have burned me alive, as in the horrific times of the Inquisition.

I only remember falling on my knees, crying and screaming my heart out. Then it all went dark.

I never wrote again. Until now.