Cries From the Heart - Trish Hanan (little red riding hood ebook .txt) 📗

why I grew up confused.

If I told you of my fears,
Would you think that it was my imagination?
Or would you know about the scared child inside.

If I spoke of childhood memories,
Would you think that they were lies?
Or would you know the reality I lived.

If I told you of my hate,
Would you tell me to forgive and forget?
Or would you know that it was justified.

If I spoke of not trusting or believing,
Would you think I was exaggerating?
Or would you know I had nothing to believe in.

If I told you the reasons that I hurt,
Would you use them to hurt me?
Or would you help me now to heal.

If I spoke of all these things,
Would you listens and understand?
Or would you turn away in disgust.

The past is all gone.
The deeds have been done.
There’s nothing left here but my pain.

If I share all my secrets?
And if you understood.
Maybe then I would feel I am sane.


written: November, 1989


Beef Stew

I hate beef stew. When I was a kid we would have it about once a week, or at least, twice every three weeks. It was a cheap meal because my mom would take a small package of beef cubes and mix then with a lot of carrots, potatoes and gravy. With biscuits, this was a great meal for a large family and everyone in my family loved it. I pretended for years to like beef stew just by eating the carrots and gravy. Mom would fill my bowl with lots of carrots because she thought I loved her beef stew. I don’t pretend to like it anymore and I never make it for my family.

It was a cold October day and I was fourteen years old, almost fifteen. My dad was in the Army and we lived off-base, so every month the whole family went shopping for groceries at the commissary; this month, everyone was going but me. Someone had to stay behind because of the beef stew. Dad had really great reasons why I was the one to stay behind. Neither of my two brothers Jimmy or Michael could stay, they were boys and boys couldn’t cook. My little sister Rosie was too small. Mom had to go shopping because she had the money and knew what to buy and my older sister Elizabeth had to drive. He didn’t feel like going, so that left me to watch the stew. I knew it wasn’t the only reason and I begged my mother to let me go with her, but she couldn’t understand that I had to go and I couldn’t tell her the real reason. But I know now that she knew and think that I knew it then, I just couldn’t come out and accuse her. I knew what was going to happen, it had happened before.

As soon as everyone left, I tried to hide in the cookshed. We lived way out in the country in a really nice house. But the kitchen didn’t have a stove for some reason. The stove and the washer and dryer were located in a small shed just off the kitchen. In order to reach it, you had to go out the kitchen door (which was just outside my Dad’s bedroom). He could see me from his window, out there trying to look like I was stirring the stew. Maybe I thought I could hide in the shed until everyone came back (three or four hours) or maybe, I thought if I stayed out there long enough he would forget. It wasn’t likely, but, I wished I could have run into the woods like had once before. (I had hid in the woods the month before with no clothes on, and then I climbed in bedroom window when the others had come home from shopping. My dad chased me through the woods with his gun, threatening to shoot me if I didn’t come out, but he couldn’t find me). But I couldn’t do that this month because of the beef stew. Even though it was cheap, it was still a slightly expensive item on our weekly menu, and if it had burned, I would have gotten into some serious trouble. I hate beef stew.

Eventually my dad got tired of waiting for me to come in on my own and called from his window. I dreaded going into the house, but I couldn’t find a reason to get out of it. When I looked into my dad’s room I could see him sitting on his bed. I knew this time was different from all the others because he didn’t have any clothes on. Usually it took at least an hour or so for him to coax me out of my clothes before he would take his off. After a few minutes a him touching me and groping me under my clothes, I said that I had to go out and check on the stew. This excuse worked about four times before my dad went out and turned the stove off. Every time I escaped to the cookshed, it felt like my legs got heavier and heavier on the way back to the house. On the last trip, it seemed like that short ten feet had turned into an endless journey, and I knew that I couldn’t escape from the pain and suffering that waited for me.

When my dad got back from turning the stove off, he joined me in the bed. He had told me when he left that I’d better be undressed and in bed waiting for him when he got back. He said that I was going to enjoy what was going to happen and that he could see in my eyes what I wanted him to do.

The moment he touched me, I could feel myself leaving my body. That’s the only way I can describe the feelings I experienced. Whenever my dad’s hands would touch my body, I could feel myself drifting away, like I wasn’t there anymore and some stranger’s body was lying there in my place. All the while he was touching me, he was telling me how much he loved me, this was how he showed his love and that there was nothing wrong with fathers sharing their love with their daughters, it was very natural. So I just laid there with silent tears running down my face and into my ears, until the tears clogged up my hearing somewhat and whatever he said after that became foggy and distorted. The only time my eyes glanced away from the shadows on the ceiling was when I felt this sharp pain like I was being torn apart.

I looked down to see my dad’s body moving up and down and even though I had read about rape in books, I couldn’t believe that it was happening to me. He had never done this before, just the kissing and the touching. Sex was supposed to be enjoyable, that’s what I had read, seen in the movies and what some of my friends had told me. But I didn’t fee anything except shame and disgust. His little grunts and moans sounded like an animal. His face looked just like an animal.

When it was over, I went into the bathroom and took a bath. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I just couldn’t seem to get his touch off of my body. Then I went to my room and took a nap. When my mother and everyone came home, we had dinner. I guess my dad went out and turned the beef stew back on because it was ready when they came home. All through dinner, I just sat there and pretended to eat. Everyone was still excited about shopping so they didn’t even notice how quiet I was. Then I went to my room to read and fell asleep with the light on.

I knew what had happened, he knew what had happened; we just pretended it didn’t. Eventually, I kind of put it at the back of my mind and didn’t think about it. After a while, it just faded into the background; always there, but never above the surface. He left me alone for a couple of weeks after that, but it soon started up again. The same games, played the same way, and there wasn’t anything I could do to change the rules. I hate beef stew.

Another day, another beef stew. But this time my brother’s dog had knocked the pot of stew off the stove and had started to eat it. My dad heard the noise from is window. So, he took his gun and shot the dog dead; in the cookshed. For as long as we lived in that house, you could see that huge stain on the floor by the stove. I hated to go in there. My mother tried for weeks to scrub the blood off of the floor, but couldn’t get it out. I could have told her you can’t wash blood from a wooden floor, it stains forever. Just like the small red smear I washed off my thigh and can’t seem to get off my soul since that cold October day.

written: November, 1989


Little Ones

So many memories dance in my mind
That one little moment is so hard to find.

So many dark secrets were kept and not spoken
‘Till the little heart wept and was broken.

So many dreams wished for that were shattered
‘Till the little child flinched and was battered.

So many times crying alone in the night
With little hands clenched tightly with fright.

So many feelings of guilt and of shame
‘Till little shoulders soon drooped with the blame.

So many lies by loved ones were told
‘Till the little eyes grew sad and so old.

So many hours spent praying for hope
‘Till the little soul died finding ways just to cope.

So many emotions were twisted and abused
‘Till the little girl grew up misled and confused.

So many bad promises she was forced to make
‘Till the little child felt her life a mistake.

So many grown-ups were children like me
When will the little ones in us be set free?


written: December, 1989


Then…Now…Soon

See that woman over there,
With the baby in her womb.
Even now she wishes,
That babe was in a tomb.

That was then. That was me.

See the little child just one,
With pretty curly blonde hair?
They left her and took off,
Abandoned in Grandma’s care.

That was then. That was me.

See the little girl who’s five,
There are monsters in her nights.
But no one ever listens,
They just turn off the lights.

That was then. That was me.

Seven, eight and nine,
What happened to that kid?
I wish I could remember
Just what those grown-ups did.

That was then. That was me.

See the girl, she’s barely twelve,
All alone she faces the shame.
It’s not his fault, she understands,
She knows just where to put