Warning: The following story may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
My first memory in life is at the age of two. It’s very vivid, as if it just happened yesterday. I was wearing these footed pajamas. They were the same color as my father’s truck and they zipped all the way up the front. I was holding on to my baby doll and sucking my thumb as I played in the bedroom with my brother and my father’s three older sons. They were visiting for the weekend.
My father was home. He was screaming in the next room for my mother to call the police. Someone was outside; they were stealing his light blue truck.
I heard my mother running down the steps to get to the phone.
I remember every little detail. The front door opening and then slamming against the bricks, the gun in my father’s hand, the gunshot, the police car, the glare of the blue and red lights, shining off the bedroom window. The sirens…. I remember it all very clearly. I remember, in the midst of the busyness, being lifted to the top bunk of the beds.
I see it in color, the snap shots, like a video, playing over and over in my mind. The rush of emotions, played out in each scene, I can still conjure up what it felt like in that room. It’s still all to present in my mind, deep-rooted in my senses, the smells, the atmosphere, those around me, the conversations taking place, and me.
Up until that point, adults were good and evil didn’t exist.
I found security wrapped in a blanket, with my brother as my best friend but everything changed that night. My two-year old existence was devoured. It was ripped from the core of my being.
His claws; shredded me like barbed wire, when they grabbed me from behind. My flesh was left trembling in the confusion as my spirit laid; defeated by the fear.
I no longer belonged to me.
My voice was immediately silenced and the room became subdued. My childhood left abandoned to tragedy with a darkness that imprisoned my soul.
No memory precedes this night. No hugs, no kisses, no stories before bed. None.
He smiled, his beastly image, boosting a vicious grin. I felt the intrusion, the poison on my being, the anger unveiling in my veins.
I was trapped.
The choice was not mine. I would no longer live the life that I’d known.
This was my childhood.
He was my father’s oldest son.
From the personal journal of Kerri Bishop Reece written January 23, 1999
© Kerri Bishop Reece | Kerri Chronicles