To Whom It May Concern: by M.J. Garrett (books to get back into reading .TXT) 📕

fact that her son was 12 and had friends that would be spending their weekends at the coach’s house playing video games and basketball while Mr. Galloway would watch with a sort of sick curiosity.

Mrs. Galloway would still cheer the 14 year old swimmer on at every swim meet and treated him as if she was proud of him…even though she despised him for being everything she couldn’t be. She thought about telling his parents, but how would that make her look? Could she ruin the image she tried so hard to protect? Besides, the police chief had his own agenda. He had to protect himself from the humiliation of having the only openly gay son on the swim team.

Mrs. Galloway sat next to Mrs. Johnson at every Sunday morning church service. Both of them would smile as if they were so happy. Their eyes painted so perfectly and their thin lips glossed over. Mrs. Galloway and Mrs. Johnson were sisters after all….and nothing was worth losing family over, right? Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets. Everyone was happy. No one was happy.

*

Our mom’s new husband would constantly drink and take his anger out on me and my brother. My mother would wrap her arm with a belt and inject herself with her own coping mechanism. Her dirty calloused toes would curl for a second until she smiled and relaxed. Her eyes would become slow as she would giggle at the visions of her new reality. Her hands would reach out for things that aren't even there.

My mother, my protector, and my secret.

When I was 5 years old; of course during one of my mother’s reality altering state of coping, my step dad came into our bedroom and found that my younger brother had kicked his precious blanket off in the middle of the night. My step dad, my hero, my savior woke me up by slapping me in the face, accompanied by the feel of his leather belt slowly being tightened around my neck. I could feel the cold of the buckle and the way my skin grips to the rough leather as the buckle pinched pieces of skin and pulled the hair from neck. My eyes would start to roll into my head as I struggled for breath. According to him, I had allowed his newborn son, his only begotten son, to kick off his stupid precious blanket…that was unacceptable. I wasn’t even allowed to use a blanket.

For the next week, me and my older brother traded shifts like presidential guards. We made sure his holy son didn’t kick that blanket off. I told my brother that I had to use the bathroom and asked him to cover my shift…just for a minute. I went into the bathroom, sat down on the cold toilet, and drifted asleep. My brother stayed there, leaning up against the wall with his head bobbing up and down; fighting to stay awake while I sat there slumped over on the toilet.

With feet dangling, holding my pajamas up, I sat there dreaming. Visions of a car driving through the dessert, throwing dirt into the air as sand and wind filled the car. I enjoyed the freedom of the wind. Sitting there dreaming, losing touch with reality, this was always the moment when my step father would wake me up. Great timing on his part.

A belt across my shoulder blades shook my senses. The sting and heat of the leather lingered as my skin began to swell and formed an outline of the belt across my back. “What are you doing!? Your brother could be freezing to death while your stupid ass is in here sleeping. Get up, you piece of shit!”

Delirious, confused...asleep. “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!” Tears filled my sleepy eyes as I tried to figure out where I was. No excuses. Dragged back to the room, I found my older brother’s glazed red eyes full of tears. My protector, my hero, this was my brother. I looked around to try to figure out what was going on. As I tried to gather the moment, the air from my body left as room began to spin. My step dad, my Savior repeatedly punched me in the stomach as I fell like a weary boxer to the bedroom floor.

With the air knocked out of me, I stopped crying. I wanted to cry, but there was no air to breathe. The room became slow and turned to black, white, and gray images. No sound…just silence. I struggled to catch my breath, while our step father stood over me and laughed.
The Almighty Savior, the love of my mother’s life, my punishment.

I thought I was going to die. Grabbing me by my hair, he looked into my eyes and licked his chapped cracked lips as he drooled. He shoved a soiled cloth diaper, filled with my baby brother’s shit and piss, so far in my mouth that the gag reflex seemed to be pushing my eyes out of their socket. He pushed my face into the dirty mattress. Laughing at us, he positioned himself behind me. Wiping the drool from his face, he reached down and rubbed the spit on his erection and opened my legs up as he pushed himself inside of me. The pressure was so furious that I thought, I hoped, I was going to pass out and die.

My brother, lying beside me face down in the bed with a t-shirt wrapped around his entire face and head with a belt around his quivering neck, looked at me through the tear soaked t-shirt. His hands were behind him wrapped in duct tape as his eyes were glazed and numb. Face to face, he looked at me through the shirt as if all life and fight had escaped him.

My mistake, my fault, my secret.

Our step dad was just laughing….as he started to push himself inside me at a faster and more aggressive pace. The ripping skin and pressure inside made my insides hurt. The taste and smell of shit from the diaper shoved in my mouth, overcome my senses as his sweat and spit began to fall on my neck and back. He grabbed my hair and turned my face so that I could see him. So, I could see his almighty power. So I could worship him.

My Savior, my protector, my Almighty Father.

His eyes and jaw were tense. Spit, with every aggressive breath he took, would fly out of his mouth and on my face and run down his chin until it dripped onto his chest or my lower back. My body tenses up from the pain as he keeps laughing. “I like it tight!” he whispered in my ear leaving drops of spit and drool soaking into my eardrum.

We all need to be revered and feared…maybe worshiped by those we conquer. It is at this moment that he hits me in the face so hard that a flash of lightning puts me to sleep.

Everyone had secrets. No one had secrets. Everyone was happy. No one was happy.

To whom it may concern:
If there is a god, hear my prayer and grant me peace. Grant me life...or death. Just get me the fuck out of here!


CHAPTER 2

On my way into work, I stop at the same traffic lights. The same cars are at the same corners. It appears that I’m not the only one with routine. In front of me there is a small pickup truck. It’s black with a tan midsection and a red beat up door. The back window is covered with a poor do-it-yourself tint job, stickers of band names, and popular car accessory companies. Although the truck looked crappy, the roaring sound of the engine tells me otherwise.
The driver of the vehicle, maybe 20 years old, has pale skin and jet black hair. It’s a little longer than an inch and it looks as if he climbed out of bed and then sprayed it with some sort of lacquer. Seeing how he doesn’t look too particular, the hair spray is probably a cheap knock off brand that carries the smell of aerosol throughout the entire day and by lunch, has made its way to rest on his shoulders and back like a bad case of dandruff.
He taps his thumbs on the steering wheel to the same beat every morning. He probably listens to the same CD. He probably pushes play at the same time, right after he fastens the safety belt and lights the first cigarette of the morning. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a white logo on the back. It’s the same T-shirt he wears every morning. It’s hard to make the logo out because today my car is a little farther back in line than normal…change creates havoc.

This morning’s towel incident was the cause of today’s delay. It fell off the hook on the back of the bathroom door and landed on the floor after last night’s shower, causing the towel to remain damp. I went to get another towel from the hall closet, and this set me back about 12 seconds. If I had made it out to my car 12 seconds earlier, I would’ve been directly behind the small pickup truck just like every other day.

*

When I have time for distractions, I often look back and reflect on moments in my forgettable childhood. Moments that have shaped me into the person that I am today. Thank you to Mother. Thank you, Father. Thank you, God. Thank you to whomever. One constant thing comes to mind…my brother. I always looked at him as my guardian angel, my protector…my only parent. That’s the only good part of these memories. He was the only one who knew what it meant to be family. We have grown closer the past couple of months, but the silence between us has lasted ten years. Ten years that I could’ve helped him. Ten years of me not being there to take care of him like he took care of me when we were kids.


To Whom It May Concern:
Grant me sleep. Grant me peace. Grant me deliverance.
P.S. Sorry about the time I fell asleep on the toilet.


We spent our entire childhood together. Every foster home and every trip back to our abusive parents; our monsters; our Saviors, have been spent with him looking out for me. We would only spend a few months at a time away from our abusive monsters. I always thought that no matter how far we went, we could never escape the grasp of fear placed over us by our beloved amazing parents. Every time we went back to our parents, as soon as the social worker would leave, we would once again be subject to punishment.