A Child Called "It" (Dave Pelzer, #1)

by Dave Pelzer

I give her a frightened look as if I am truly afraid. But I know that even though my uncle is a hard-nosed man, he surely won’t treat me like Mother does.

“Tell ‘em … Tell ‘em you ran into the door.” Then in a voice she rarely uses with me, she states, “Have a nice day.” I look into her swollen red eyes. She still has a hangover from last night’s stupor.

Accident. I am always supposed to say that. But the nurse knows better.

My long-sleeve shirt has more holes than Swiss cheese. It’s the same shirt I’ve worn for about two years. Mother has me wear it every day as her way to humiliate me.

I stand clothed only in my underwear, the nurse records my various marks and bruises on the clipboard.

Next, the nurse opens my mouth to look at my teeth that are chipped from having been slammed against the kitchen tile counter top.

“And that,” she says as she takes a deep swallow, “is where she stabbed you?” “Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Oh no!” I tell myself, “I’ve done something wrong … again.”

Once, about a year ago, he called Mother to ask about my bruises. At that time, he had no idea what was really going on.

When I came to school the next day, he saw the results of Mother’s beatings. He never called her again.

The entire room lets out a howl at me—the reject of the fifth grade.

I have no idea that they are about to risk their jobs to save me.

Before I left, Mr. Ziegler told me he would tell the other kids the truth—the real truth. I would give anything to have been there in class when they found out I’m not so bad.

Everyday seemed sprinkled with magic. One day after dinner, Mom and Dad took the three of us to watch the sunset. All of us held hands, as we crept past Mr. Parker’s cabin to get to the river.

I never felt as safe and as warm as that moment in time, at the Russian River.

Soon, the sound of Mother’s voice began to send tremors down my spine.

After a while, I could determine what kind of day I was going to have by the way she dressed. I would breathe a sigh of relief whenever I saw Mom come out of her room in a nice dress with her face made up. On these days she always came out with a smile.

Whenever my brothers came into the room while I was at the mirror, they would look at me, shrug their shoulders and continue to play—as if I were not there. At first I was jealous, but soon I learned that they were only trying to save their own skins.

My fantasy included the family living happily ever after. But, I never found any of Mother’s lost things, and she never let me forget that I was an incompetent loser.

I loved it when Dad was home. It meant no beatings, mirror treatments or long searches for her missing things. Father became my protector.

They held each other close, and they looked so happy. I thought I could bury the bad times. I was wrong. The bad times were only beginning.

I closed my eyes as the oncoming blows began to rock me from side to side.

As she jerked violently to regain her stability, I heard something pop, and felt an intense pain in my shoulder and arm.

Mother finally excused me and sent me to bed early, telling me to sleep in the top bunk. This was unusual because I had always slept on the bottom. Sometime near morning I finally fell asleep, with my left arm carefully cradled in the other.

I hadn’t slept long when Mother awakened me, explaining that I had rolled out of the top bunk during the night. She seemed to be deeply concerned about my condition, as she drove me to the hospital.

One day in late spring, when I returned home from school, Mother threw me into her bedroom. She then yelled at me, stating I was to be held back from the first grade because I was a bad boy. I did not understand. I knew I had more “happy face” papers than anybody in the class.

Whenever the other kids came to our home, she treated them like kings. Some of the other kids told me how they wished their mothers would be like mine. I never responded, but I wondered to myself what they would think if they knew the real truth.

Suddenly I began to realize the longer I could keep myself off the top of the stove, the better my chances were for staying alive.

I stood against the wall and began to whimper until I realized that I had beaten her. I had bought a few precious minutes. I used my head to survive. For the first time, I had won!

Standing alone in that damp, dark garage, I knew, for the first time, that I could survive.

Mother had me run to school. She knew I would not arrive in time to steal any food from my classmates.

Mother sensed I was getting food some way, so she began sprinkling ammonia in the trash can.

I couldn’t believe he just stood there as I ate the revolting contents of the bowl. At that moment, I knew we were slipping further and further apart.

The harsh tone of Mother’s voice didn’t seem to bother him. He simply stared at me through a set of cold eyes.

Sometimes he would make up tales for Mother so he could watch me receive punishment. It really wasn’t Russell’s fault. I knew Mother had brainwashed him, but I had begun to turn cold towards him and hate him just the same.

“If you don’t finish on time, I’m going to kill you!” Her words had no effect on me. She had said the same thing over and over again for almost a week now.

Something looked wrong. Very wrong! I strained to focus my eyes on Mother. She had begun to wave the knife in her right hand.

“Eyes,” I told myself. “Look at her eyes.” I did, and they seemed normal for her—half-glazed over. But my instincts told me there was something wrong.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blurred object fly from her hand. A sharp pain erupted from just above my stomach. I tried to remain standing, but my legs gave out, and my world turned black.

When I woke up, Mother was still on her knees wrapping a cloth around my lower chest. She knew exactly what she was doing. Many times when we were younger, Mother told Ron, Stan and me how she had intended to become a nurse, until she met Father.

I stood before Father, waiting for him to turn his page and see me. When he did, I stuttered, “Father … Mo … Mo … Mother stabbed me.” He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked. “She told me if I didn’t do the dishes on time, she … she’d kill me.” Time stood still. From behind the paper I could hear Father’s labored breathing. He cleared his throat before saying, “Well … you ah … you better go back in there and do the dishes.”

But, as always, I knew that Mother controlled him like she controlled everything that happened in her house.

I turned away. All my respect for Father was gone. The savior I had imagined for so long was a phony. I felt more angry at him than I did at Mother. I wished that somehow I could fly away, but the throbbing pain brought me back to reality.

I wanted to just lie down and quit, but the promise I made years ago kept me going. I wanted to show The Bitch that she could beat me only if I died, and I was determined not to give in, even to death.

As the minutes passed, Mother became more compassionate towards me. She held me by the shoulders as we watched my brothers make figure eights with their sparklers. “Would you like one?” Mother asked.

Father’s once-rigid shoulders were now slumped over. Gray had begun to take over his jet-black hair. Before he left that day, I threw my arms around his waist. I didn’t know when I would see him again.

“You have two minutes to eat. That’s all.” Like lightening I picked up the fork, but the moment before the food touched my mouth, Mother snatched the plate away from me and emptied the food down the garbage disposal. “Too late!” she sneered.

“You eat like a pig!” Mother snarled. I bowed my head, acting as though I cared. But inside I laughed at her, saying to myself, “Fuck you! Say what you want! I got the food!”

Downstairs I coughed up blood for over an hour. Of all Mother’s punishments, I hated the gas chamber game the most.

The first day Father served sandwiches for lunch and let me have seconds.

“It’s over, sweetheart. After this moment, I want you to forget any of it happened at all. You will try to be a good boy, won’t you?” I shook my head. “Then, I’ll try to be a good mother.”