Autobiography Of A Marionette

This is the introduction and a part of the first chapter of a book. The book is currently with publishers and due to be released by April 2010. It is a sneak peak of what is to come... “Autobiography of a Marionette” Dear Reader, This book is a genuine recollection of my life to date. Within the pages are contained the secrets of my soul and the very nightmares that I have been unable to exorcise. I wish I had made it all up, however, my imagination is not so great that I could ever dream up such horrors without personal experience. I ask that you do not judge me. I am not judging you for being a voyeur. Everything from rape, through to cancer, discovering that life is not always fair and all the in between... that if you give people a chance - you may be pleasantly surprised to learn that there are genuinely good people left in this world who actually give a damn. This is me - raw and naked. I write this so that you do not have to suffer as I have. Thank you for all those who cared enough to help me learn to live in a safe, happy and healthy environment. Namaste, Me... “Close every door to me; Hide all the world from me; Bar all my windows and shut out the light. Do what you want with me; Hate me and laugh at me; Darken my day time and torture my night. If my life were important I Would ask, will I live or die, But I know the answers lie far from this world. Close every door to me; Keep those I love from me...” ~ Joseph and the amazing technicolour dreamcoat ~ A long, long, time ago... no wait, was it? “We're all of us sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life!” ~ Tennessee Williams ~ The feeling is akin to solitary confinement. You sit in your cell all alone, reaching out to the outside world, yet no one sees your heart bleeding nor you breaking apart like a dropped porcelain doll. The fear, when someone dares to actually peep in and check to see whether you are still breathing, is so great, that you try and crawl further and further away. It is inconceivable that another human being wants to be near you. Your cell, your body, makes you claustrophobic, you feel invaded, dirty... This is how it feels whenever anyone tries to gain access to your corpse. Once upon a time, there was an invasion. You learnt to withdraw. The closer they came, the further you withdrew. Now there is no place even for you to move or hide. There is only an outline of you left. A wall, built to withstand any further onslaughts or sieges, encircles you. It is big and strong. No one will be able to

hurt you again. You feel nothing. All they see, is an empty shell that you allow to face the big, bad world. They don’t notice the small child crying on the inside, sobbing, heart-wrenching tears of pain, falling apart, agonisingly piece by piece. They observe the shell as it smiles, plodding along, doing all that needs to be done. Yet the scars still ooze poison. The smile never reaches the eyes. The pain is imprinted in each glance, motion, and cell. The skin is your book. It has dutifully recorded everything, waiting for judgement day. No one hears your pleas for help. The small, invisible child within walks from person to person, innocently offering them your soul. She yearns for love, for affection, to be wanted and needed. She wants to believe that there are good people in the world. She refuses to fall into a bottomless pit of depression. They all ignore her, pretending that she doesn’t exist. It’s easier that way. Some even blame her for all that has happened. “You are disgusting and filthy. You encouraged this. It is all your fault.” She starts to believe them. Maybe she is crazy. Maybe her imaginary ‘evil’ twin is making this all up. But you didn’t do anything wrong. Did you? Maybe it was what you were wearing? Maybe it was because you are good for nothing else? Maybe you had to be broken? I guess, it had to be you, since it didn’t only happen once. It happened again and again. You must have encouraged it! But you were so young... They stole your innocence. They made you grow up when you were still a baby. What does a child of three know? How can a child of five know any better? The memories are foggy. Maybe I am making it all up? Why does it hurt to try and remember? Maybe your mind knows it is best to seal those doors and never re-open them. The memories keep returning, like a long forgotten night-mare. Hands touching, exploring a body not yet mature enough to understand - neither the sensations nor what is about to happen. How does a child know what is right and what is not? Secrets. No one can keep a secret as well as a child. Teach a child to lie and they will never betray you. Nothing happened. Pretend that it was all a bad dream. Keep pretending and hiding and lying... How long can one hold everything in before it starts to leak or explode? Why is life so cruel? Who could do something so horrible? Why didn’t it stop? Life slowly becomes more and more depressing, suffocating, too much to bear... Death seems like sweet salvation. Why continue living when life only holds pain and abuse? The pain and tears keep you grounded. They stop you from disappearing completely. From leaving your wretched body. If only you could hide some place nice and safe... Your hair is wrapped around his hands. He has twisted it for better grip and the pain makes your eyes water. You don’t cry. It only angers him. You were told to stop being a baby and to be strong. You’re an adult now. Stop being a wimp. The carpet burns your thigh as he drags you to bed. A blow to your face causes you to withdraw to that place where no one can hurt you. Somewhere in the distant haze you can hear the grunting and the derogatory name calling but it is too distant to affect you. You know those hands are touching you, rubbing you, trying to enter you but you withdraw further.

It will all be over soon. He gets angrier and more frustrated. How dare you not respond? How dare you not let him in? You slut! You whore! He is your master. He owns you. He is skilled and knows how to get any girl to respond. All the other girls have told him so. What is wrong with you? Instead, he jerks off all over your face and breasts, all the while telling you that you are a filthy bitch. The hot oozing semen burns your body like acid. He is branding you. You slowly slip out of bed unnoticed and walk into the bathroom. His sleeping form, a visible outline on the bed in the darkness. The mirror reflects large, vacant eyes full of unshed tears. Another bruise. How to disguise this one? The semen is making a hot trail down your breasts, stomach and thighs. You gag. Nausea sweeps over you in a sickly tide. You turn on the taps to scorching hot. You want to wash away the memory, the grime, him. If you could remove your skin you would gladly. Instead, you scrub and scrub until the skin becomes red raw and starts to bleed in places. You wish for death even more passionately than usual. Your soundless wails of anguish fall on deaf walls. How can no one see my misery? Why won’t anyone help? Everyone wants something from me. They all take. Why won’t anyone give? A tiny defiant girl of three or so, dressed in a white dress resembling a mini wedding gown, looking uncertainly into a mirror. It is dark, except for the flicker of a candle in the distance. A hazy face stares out from behind. Can’t make out if it is a man or a woman. The girl remembers playing mummies and daddies. Remembers running down the street, tears streaming down her face. Remembers running inside and locking herself in the toilet. Remembers cleaning herself up and washing her face, a lie ready to explain the puffy red eyes. There were tears and a prayer for a merciful death. How can a child so young wish to be dead? Who would do such a thing? Who was it? Do I really want to know? Lying to the parents. Telling them I had tripped and hurt myself. “Let me take your daughter for a ride to the shops. She can choose a present for herself while you finish making lunch.” Who was he that your parents entrusted their young daughter of five with? Stale cigarette smell lingered in the car. The worn, orange-brown leather seats. The tough seat belt they made you put on. The hand slowly sliding up your skirt. The rough hand stroking your panties. “Please don’t. I don’t like it.” You are old enough to know that he makes you uncomfortable but you don’t know why. A back handed slap stings your cheeks. Silent tears fall into your lap as he turns the car around. “What’s that red mark on your face?” asks your mother. “She was being naughty,” replies the strange man. Mum slaps you too. “How dare you misbehave? No presents for you!” She doesn’t know. You try to protect her from the scary man. You know more than she does. Night time is worst. Can’t sleep. A slap and a trip to the doctor for wetting your bed. You are too old for that. Only babies wet their beds. What is wrong with you? Sleep is a time for night mares. Why can’t I get a moments peace? Why do they always have to win? No one cares. You are on your own. Get used to it. You can’t trust anyone. Don’t rely on anyone for help either. No one understands. “Get over it!” How? Tell me how and I will gladly do it! Don’t you think I want all of this to go away too? Do you think I enjoy or take some morbid pleasure from reliving my past?

All alone. “Now crawl for me. Yes. That’s right baby. Spread your legs a little more. Be a dear. Let me see you. Let me touch you. No one cares about you like I do.” One hand pointed a gun at me, whilst he masturbated with the other. The sticks and pebbles lodging themselves into my knees, embedding themselves into my palms. The woods are not a safe place for a young girl. I was twenty. I should have known better. Don’t trust people. They all hurt you in the end. The bark of the tree was rough and scratching my back. He kept pushing me. “This is what you like, hey bitch? You like it rough don’t you?” No. I didn’t. But that obviously didn’t matter. His cum stained my clothing as he spewed his seeds of evil lust all over me. I still didn’t cry. His mouth was hot and wet as he pressed himself against me. My lips were bruised. I felt sick. He was gentle at least, even if I didn’t want his hands on me. I was horrified that I could ‘like’ some of his touches. He kept pawing at me. His pants were wet but he kept rubbing himself against me. I tried to push him away. He was bigger than I. I had no strength left to fight anyone. Not anymore. They killed the little girl inside. He rolled over and in a panting, raspy voice said, “Next time I’ll make you a woman. I need you too much right now to take you completely.” “Stop teasing me you whore! You were a stripper for gawds sake! You should be grateful that a decent bloke like myself still wants you. How can you pretend that you dislike my touch? You know you want me.” Another slap. “Don’t worry ‘love’. I won’t leave any marks where others can see and take me for the abusing kind. Girls like you like to be thrown around a bit. Be grateful bitch. You deserve to be treated like the slut that you are.” Another slap. “All strippers are sluts. Don’t play games with me. I know you aren’t a virgin. How can anyone in your profession be?” The hands were gripping my thighs, pushing them apart as I struggled to pull my clothes back and get away... The ripping of fabric. The stinging of another slap. The bruising of bones being crushed. I pause. Maybe he is right. Maybe I am all those things he says I am? I wasn’t the decent one. I pray that if God exists, that He kill me instantly and take me away. My head is sore. The tears have drained me. I am tired. No strength to smile. I wake each day, hoping it will be my last. Maybe I am ungrateful? Can’t I see all my blessings? Cancer is a blessing. It brings the certainty of death. I have a job. It pays the bills. No one wants me. Not the ‘me’ inside that only wants love. I don’t blame them. Maybe they’ll catch this horrible disease that I have and they’ll get hurt too. “To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. - Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.” ~ Shakespeare ~

A day in the life of... a nobody “One of the greatest diseases is to be nobody to anybody.” ~ Mother Teresa ~ I exhale and release the smoke from my lungs as I squash another cigarette into the ashtray. It was overflowing ash, stubs and half smoked cigarettes onto the table at my side. I was sitting in the dark on the cold, tiled floor beside the couch as I couldn't be bothered to get up and turn on the light nor move. I felt nothing. Numb Was this what life was supposed to feel like? Taking another mouthful of the foul, burning, amber liquid, I was desperately trying - unsuccessfully mind you, to get drunk. Hoping that once drunk, the effects of the alcohol would force me to feel alive but alas, I was no alcoholic. I could never properly stomach the taste even when I tried. Remembering something a high school friend once told me years ago, I contemplated trying to find pain killers to add to my concoction, but I was too lazy to even do that. Why do people assume that I am always happy and positive? I don't feel very happy right now. I sighed. A big, audible sigh. My only constant companions, the walls, didn't respond. The tinkle of a bell announced the presence of my cat. She was black. How fitting. I felt black too. Way past the feeling of blue. She meowed and crawled into my lap, where she commenced kneading my thigh with her razor sharp claws. I was torn between allowing her to continue and wanting to declaw her. In the end I pick her up and removed her. Even she didn't really care. So long as I continued to feed her she'd stay.

Traitorous animal!