Living With Evil by Cynthia Owen (best way to read books .TXT) 📕

I could talk to. I couldn’t tell my friends. It would be too embarrassing. What if it was normal and I was making a big fuss about something everybody did? What if I wasn’t normal? What could they do to help?

I definitely couldn’t tell Mother Dorothy. I didn’t know if what Daddy did was sinful, but I felt dirty afterwards. It felt wrong. I thought that Mother Dorothy would beat me for being dirty, or tell me I was a liar and a sinner. Being caned with Mr Greeny was the last thing I wanted. And what if she confronted Daddy? Having a nun knocking on our door to talk to him about it was unthinkable; that would bring me untold misery. There was Granny, I suppose, but I wanted to be happy with Granny. She was my escape. I couldn’t tell her. What if she told Mammy? She’d have a fit about me talking about what went on in our house behind her back.

Daddy had started to hurt me in the mornings sometimes too, especially Sunday mornings when Mammy was still fast asleep. One Sunday morning, he was pushing himself on me in the single bed, while Mammy lay across the room in the double bed. I didn’t struggle, because I had learned that it hurt more if I did.

I was tracing my finger along a curved pattern on the faded wallpaper to focus my mind away from what was happening to me, when I suddenly heard Mary and Martin playing at the bottom of the stairs.

They were whispering so as not to wake Mammy and Daddy, because at the weekend the little ones weren’t allowed downstairs alone when Mammy and Daddy were still in bed.

‘Give it to me! It’s my turn!’ I heard one of them hiss.

Suddenly, a thought flashed into my head: If I can hear them at the bottom of the stairs, then perhaps Mammy can hear what Daddy is doing to me on the other side of the room?

The thought made my heart leap with hope. It meant Mammy could find out what was happening without me having to find the words to tell her.

I let out some of my stifled sobs one by one, and I turned my head and watched Mammy closely. She stirred a little. I saw her eyelids flicker, and I was sure she was awake.

I kept watching her intently, looking at every little movement she made. My legs and my back ached. It was agony between my legs, but I didn’t struggle. I let Daddy carry on hurting me, and all the time I was willing Mammy to wake up and see what he was doing. Please, Mammy! Please wake up, a little voice in my head screamed. Please hear him. Please stop him!

My eyes bored into her face. She stirred again, and her breathing wasn’t like the normal long, slow pants she made when she was deep in sleep. It sounded like her daytime breathing. She had to be awake.

She stirred again, then I watched in horror as she pulled her blanket over her face and turned her back on me, her eyes clamped shut.

My mind raced: ‘She’s awake and she knows what he’s doing! She knows I’m crying in pain, but she’s letting him do it. It must be normal! She’s awake, and she knows what he’s doing!’

But maybe I had imagined she was awake. Maybe she heard nothing and saw nothing. Afterwards, Daddy sent me to the shop to buy the Sunday papers.

My thighs were stinging as I walked through the main street in the village. It was a beautiful sunny day, birds were singing in the sky and families were out together going to and from mass.

As I turned a corner I felt a trickle of wetness fill my knickers. It was the horrible stuff Daddy put in my hair sometimes, and round my mouth. I felt so very dirty, and so very confused.

I looked at the other little children, chatting and smiling, and I wondered how they could look so happy after their daddies had just done what my daddy had done. Weren’t they in pain? Didn’t they feel dirty to have wet knickers and a stinging bottom? How could they smile?

I didn’t have any answers, and in time I decided I had to go through with my New Year’s resolution. However risky it was, I had to speak to Mammy. I had to pluck up the courage to talk to her and tell her how sad I felt, and how sore I was. I had to do something, because I couldn’t think of anything else. It was mixing round in my brain all the time, taking all my energy and making me feel ill.

Mother Dorothy was giving out steam to me all the time too. One Monday morning, I couldn’t concentrate at all. My brain felt fuzzy. When Mother Dorothy asked me a simple sum I got it wrong. I hid in the toilet at break time fretting, wondering if I was going mad.

I just needed five minutes to think and gather my head together, but the door banged moments later. It was the thud of Mr Greeny!

‘Come out of there!’ Mother Dorothy bellowed.

I slunk out of the cubicle. ‘Sorry, Mother Dorothy, it won’t happen again,’ I said, not knowing quite what I was apologizing for. I was going crazy. I had to talk to Mammy.

A few days later, Mammy was standing alone in the kitchen, scrubbing carrots. This was my moment. I just had to spit it out, and then Mammy would help me and I wouldn’t go mad, I was sure of it. She called me nasty names and she lost her temper and gave me plenty of beatings, but she wouldn’t want me to suffer this badly, would she? She was my mammy, and she wouldn’t want Daddy to hurt me so much I thought I was going to die. I didn’t know why Daddy did it, but maybe Mammy could