Razee (razee) wrote,

Abortion Stops a Beating

An abortion stops a beating. Stop hitting me, Daddy, I promise to be good. When you get to be old enough, you can come collect up on this beating. Then you have to go off and hide behind the country girl's skirts until you get so sick inside that your nose falls of off your face, in disgust. I have inherited your embitterment, distrust and abusive insanity. Oh, I know what it means to be out-of-control. Let us pretend that it never happened, shall we? Take that gun out of your mouth, Baby, and make a trip to Cinderella City will make me feel like I am sorry, for cutting off your hair in anger, and then beating you senseless. Some of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths, and some of us had guns put there, while in the crib.
We do not wonder why you fear sleepwalking, with all of those voices screaming out in your head. I wish you had let me die, when you were offered the chance. Instead, vainly, you forced your name upon me, and did not want anything to do with me, except as a weapon to use against her. Stop whining, my dear blame-shifter, she was just as guilty as you were, even up until the day she died. I will stop blaming you when you take responsibility for the daily verbal assault and physical abuse that you made into my home. Someday, I will begin to heal myself, and forgive, firstly myself, and if you are lucky, you. I do not expect that you will be around to see that day. Today, the wounds are too raw and too apparent seeping through the dirty bandages that I drag with me, through every night. Meanwhile, I inherit your drunk, your anger, and your poisonous hatred for anything that you cannot control.
Realizing that this conversation is pointless, falling on stone-deaf ears, I raise my glass and salute you. You are one mean rotten miserable son-of-a-bitch. Nana would have been proud of you. Ken and Jim beat you, so you took it out on me. Thanks for the memories. Now you can sit in your house and wait for the perfect moment to drop dead. Carrying a black book of debts to your grave, you will go in the hole bitching and complaining about how you were such a great guy, and how the world did you wrong. You will go to your grave mumbling about how everyone owes you money, or some favor, or another. I bet you know exactly how much money that Bryan and Channon, Jim Berry, Earl Crowe, and your family are supposed to owe you. Remember when you threatened to sue me for $100, 000, if I continued to write about you? Well, you had better have your bread-winning wife hire you a lawyer. Better yet, wander off to that mountain and die. Then your estate can flip coins for who gets to kick your rotten corpse down the stairs, and out into the garbage.
Mother, can I come back to you? Shall we suffer the same fate as all the others? Welcome to the life of a fourth generation abuser. The Lost and Found office called to inform you that they have found some things that you might want to claim, like your mind, your soul, and your love. Quit acting like a four-year-old having a temper tantrum, you sniveling half-nosed freak of nature, caged in rage. It is not always all about what you want, what you get and how you have been betrayed. You have been served notice- I am done living the lie for you. I am not making up more excuses for the bloody noses, bruises around my eyes, and scar tissue on my back. I should have had your ass thrown in the jail that you have confined me in, time and again.

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