“What’s he doing?” Eddie repeated and that was when the whistling began. It was low at first, the same tune I had heard him whistle before. I would later learn the name of that tune as “Fur Elise”, a classical piece. And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, I heard the creak of the first step as he began to climb, his tune becoming louder and faster with each stair.
I started backing away until I hit the far wall, my bladder feeling painfully full. He continued climbing until I heard him reach the top and begin to walk towards my door.
“Haaarrrrrryyyy,” he sang in between his whistling, “time to do the time. You know the time? The crime decides the time, little rabbit.”
I began to shake with fear, backing up against the wall. I slid down onto my knees, then crawled towards the underside of my bed as Eddie began to sob in my head. My head had just managed to duck under the side rail when the door suddenly crashed open like a thunderclap. I made a frantic dive to pull my legs under but Royce grabbed one of my ankles to drag me back out.
“Where you goin’ little rabbit? Time to do the time,” he said again. I screamed and began to kick out wildly, my legs pistoning my feet out, driven by fear and panic. I felt one of my feet connect with the soft side of his face and although I heard him yelp, his fist connected with the side of my ribcage. It was enough to stop me, the wind forced from my lungs as the cracking magnified the shooting pain piercing my chest with every breath I tried to steal.
He pulled my head in front of his own until we were almost nose to nose, one big hand on either side of my face, his fingers painfully pinching my ears. I could smell the reek of his breath; musky and stale.
“Your Daddy asked me to give you a little attitude readjustment. You do the crime; you do the time.”
He suddenly twisted my head to one side, my body turning to prevent my head being twisted completely off. He then picked up my hands and forced them on to the window sill.
“If I see those hands move off of there, I will break your fuckin’ fingers. You understand me, rabbit?” he snarled into my ear. I nodded, the tears growing in my eyes now. Eddie was bawling his eyes out in some corner of our mind and I can’t say I blamed him. I was shit scared myself. James, I was just a kid, a 9-year-old kid and this fucker was about to cause me some serious pain.
“Don’t fuckin’ move” he whispered again and this time yanked my pants down around my ankles. I felt something wet probe my arse, it may have been his finger, and then push it inside. I cried out a bit but he grabbed a handful of hair and shook my head from side to side. “I said don’t fuckin move.” He let go of my hair, removed his finger from where I shit and grabbed my hips with both of his hands. I felt something large and blunt push against my arse again but this time it didn’t stop. It seemed to tear its way inside me, ripping me as he penetrated deeper and deeper. I remember screaming but I don’t know who screamed first; Eddie or me.
13.
That was the first time Royce Packard raped me. It wasn’t, however, the last time. I found out later that he was paying my father for the privilege. It became an almost weekly occurrence, Royce turning up when I was home alone; my father conveniently out getting drunk somewhere, while this fucker could do his thing to me. My rage continued to build with each rape, the cunt completely oblivious to the monster he was helping create.
Chapter 2
1.
My father was a very sick man. There’s no denying it. I knew what he was and despite everything he’d done to my mother and I, felt sorrow for him. He was a victim of his own creation, one that I had no escape from.
Although there were a lot of bad times growing up, there were also some good times. These good times were extremely rare, but when they happened, it made home feel just a little normal.
I remember sitting out on the veranda one afternoon, reading a book as my father was inside, sleeping off one of his late-night drinking binges. He must have awoken at some point and gone into the bathroom to wash up a little. Believe me, washing up and my father don’t belong in the same sentence, yet that’s what he’d been doing.
Anyway, the first I knew he was awake was when I heard his disgruntled scream coming from somewhere up on the second floor, followed by his heavy-set footsteps charging down the stairs. The door crashed open and my father stood on the decking for a moment, his braces hanging down. His face was only half shaved and he peered at me with those scorning eyes of his.
“Harry,” he snarled at me, “come help me.” He walked around the side of the building, jumped from the decking and walked towards the shed. I followed, unsure of what he needed. I do remember feeling that heavy dread in the pit of my stomach, sure that I was about to cop it again. But when he reached the shed, he grabbed his toolbox and beckoned me to follow him.
“Damn pipe’s leakin’. ‘Bout time we fixed it up,” he told me as we walked back towards the house. I followed him back into the house, my father and I about to do some genuine plumbing in the bathroom.
It wasn’t an all-day thing, maybe an hour at the most. But as sad as it is that a good memory of my father was nothing more than
