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Learning from others'mistakes
Child sexual abuse and continuing abuse dueing childhood
Child sexual abuse case study essay
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Recommended: Learning from others'mistakes
Hello, lovelies.
I'm Alice. Alice Corlette; or so, that's what I was once called.
Now? Oh, dear. I'm afraid you'll have to read my story to find out. But beware; as cliche as it sounds...curiousity killed the cat.
And so, let the story begin. The night that started this whole damn thing.
In the dark of my room, around ten at night, the doorknob rattles ferociously, waking me with fear clouding my thoughts. Dad. Was he here for another...round? I can't do this for much longer! Seventeen years old, still involuntarily living in the same, trashy apartment as my piss ant of a dad. A pedophile. A rapist.
I wasn't even supposed to be born!
The more I think of all the years I've dealt with this shit, the more morose I become. It just wasn't fair! I've tried so hard to do everything right, just to please my dad. Just so I wouldn't have to worry about him sneaking into my room at night and...and...
The door slams open. This was it. I could call the police on him tonight.
"Dad...daddy?" I whimper, hands shaking.
"Hey, sweetheart. Daddy's got an early Christmas present for you.
I let out a cry.
"Please don't, daddy. I'll go and buy some more beer, how does that sound?"
He sneers, sky blue eyes glittering in the sickest of ways. He shoves his golden hair to the side.
"Shut up and lie down."
As I lie down, the unfamiliar rush of adrenaline kicks in. Eight years of being molested by my own father. Eight years of tears and horror. I could do something about it right now; end it all. I could either kill him, or myself.
Honestly, it doesn't even matter anymore. He was driving me insane; to the boiling point...and that's a place I've never been to. I never planned on traveling there anytime soon. My...
... middle of paper ...
...er head in a very unrealistic acting manner.
"There you have it, America. Another terrifying story set place in New York City. Police are still on the look for this monster; and they promise whoever has done this terrible crime will be sent to prison for the rest of their days. Now, back to Jim for a lighter article; after the break."
Now, I don't regret what I did. No, not even an ounce of remorse flows thorughout my hollow veins. I'm invincable now. I can kill without being afraid. Some might call me insane, but I know that the reason I love to watch the last dying embers of the innocent fade out, is perfectly sane. Watch out, darling. Don't be startled if you hear your doorknob rattiling, because then, you should expect the last words you'll ever hear, to be "hush hush," for I am Malice Alice, and not even your god will be able to hear your screams.
cracks a wicked smile full of razor-sharp teeth as she sees his head turn, and
I. Intro. - Imagine you are sitting home one night with nothing to do. Your parents have gone away for the weekend and there is absolutely no one around. So you sit around that night watching TV for awhile but find nothing on worth watching. You go on upstairs to your room and get ready for bed. Turn off the lights, lay down, and close your eyes. All of a sudden you here a crash of glass in your kitchen. You rush to your feet and put your ear to the door listening to what’s going on downstairs. You begin to hear the voice of two men as they start going through the living room, making their way to the stairs, right outside your room. What do you do? You aren’t going to confront them since its just you—remember you thought you heard two of them right? Well you are really stuck in your room and all you can do is sit there hoping that they leave soon and don’t harm you. Now if it were at my house things would be a little bit different. For starters I would get out my shotgun from my closet and begin to see what is gin on down stairs.
Growing up, everything around him was decaying. Everytime he and his father set out to find food, his father always had the gun out, ready to kill. The father often handed the boy the gun and instructed him how to take his own life if they were to get in trouble. The boy grew up without a mother and now walks the barren, deserted streets littered with the dead with his father, trying not to die themselves. This would be hard to handle for an adult, let alone a child. Readers can understand and see that the boy’s constant state of fear is justified time after
This man portrays a sad, non-confident, scared life as we can see on the lines 1 to 3. We experience first hand the lack of control, the terrorizing feelings this door holds for this child:
knew; dont open your door to a stranger, even if he is the police. Make him
It begins nine in the years past, I sit on my bed stricken with fear of what hides beneath me, as I shriek for my parents, tears drip down my face, and hairs erect from my limbs. In horror, I hide behind my parents’ baggy pajamas with a hope of having protection from the unknown monster. “Honey, there is nobody in your closet or under the bed. Let mommy and
Laying down in your bed, you hear this consistent knocking. You try to sleep through it but it seems as if it will never quit. Curious, you roll out of bed away from the comfort of your wife’s warm body but cautiously move closer, step by step downstairs into the direction of the sound. Each step you take wondering whether or not your house is being robbed. You finally ease your way downstairs and quickly flip the light switch only to find your home empty and totally void of any damage or evidence of a theft of any kind; however, you still hear the sound. You notice it’s coming from your front door, but its 3 A.M. on a school night. The hairs on the back of your neck begin to rise and your heart beats faster, wondering who is violently knocking on your front door. You remember the incident at your store where a brick was thrown through the window and how you angered the community by canceling a game and blemishing a season with such a historical start. You pull the shade back on the front door, revealing not an angered parent, but Timo Cruz, once a player on your basketball team that you haven’t seen for weeks, covered in blood. You hastily unlatch the door and invite him in. At first sight, he begins muttering the events leading up to him now covered in his cousin’s blood. He tells how he scared off some bullies for the other players on the basketball team with the gun in his waistline, but only to witness his cousin slaughtered from across the street.
For some reason, out of all my siblings I felt responsible for taking care of my dad. I constantly felt pressure to try and stop the fighting between my father and other family member as much as I could. To do this I would always hover around my father trying to make sure he was not experiencing difficulty executing a task. If I saw any sign of him struggling I would get involved, pretending as if I want to help with the chore but in reality, I merely did not want him to get mad. A prime example of this is whenever he cooked dinner, he would always struggle to bend over to reach the pots or pans, I would always be in the next room half-heartedly working on homework while the other part of me was panicking. I remember my heart would always start to race and I would not be able to focus anymore on my homework because of the fear of him becoming aggravated. At the first sign of trouble I would hop up from my living room seat, hoping I could stop him from fighting with anyone in my family. I would run into the kitchen pretending to be an overly excited child asking if he wanted help cooking, know the assistance was not a want but a need. My dad always accepted and I quickly took over the responsibility of cooking even though I hated it. He would always try to praise me after saying what a good, helpful daughter I was. Instead of the excitement that most children expressed after receiving praise I would get angry thinking I should not have to help him with these simple
Laying down in here, you hear this consistent knocking. You try to sleep through but it’s consistently knocking seeming as if it will never quit. Curious, you roll out of bed away from the comfort of your wife’s warm body, but you cautiously move closer step by step downstairs into the direction of the sound. Each step you take wondering whether or not your house is being robbed. You finally ease your way downstairs and quickly flipped the light switch only to find no one and your home to have no damage or evidence of a theft of any kind; however, you still hear the sound. You notice it’s coming from your front door, but it’s 3 A.M. on a school night. The hairs on the back of your neck begin to rise and your heart beats faster as you wonder who is knocking ever so violently on your front door. You remember the incident at your store where a brick was thrown through the window and how angry and frustrated the community looked for canceling a game placing a blemish on such a historical start of the season. You pull the shade back on the front door, revealing not a angered parent, but Timo Cruz, once a player on your basketball team that you haven’t seen for weeks, covered in blood. You hastily unlatch the door and invite him. At first sight, he begins muttering the events leading up to him now covered in his cousin’s blood. He tells how he scared off some bullies for the other players on the basketball team with the gun in his waistline, but only to witness his cousin slaughtered from across the street. You talk to him settling him down and offering a secure place to sleep for the night.
ISMENE: Go then, if you feel that you must. You are unwise, But a loyal friend indeed to
Cuba. They offer him a thousand a peice he tells them he cant take them. The
The afternoon was slowly fading into the evening and I had gone the whole day without the figure of my aspiration, my father. I impatiently paced the floor in front of the door like a stalking cat waiting to pounce on its prey. The thoughts of wrestling my father and hear those words of affirmation, “You got me! Mercy! I give up!” filled my head. My father was obviously faking it but there was something about his words that have such power over a young boys life. Mothers are sources of comfort and safety for a young boy but it is the father that defines the identity of a young boy, the father bestows manhood on the boy.
My father was always there for me, whether I wanted him to be or not. Most of the time, as an adolescent trying to claim my independence, I saw this as a problem. Looking back I now realize it was a problem every child needs, having a loving father. As hard as I tried to fight it, my dad instilled in me the good values and work ethic to be an honest and responsible member of society. He taught me how to be a good husband. He taught me how to be a good father. He taught me how to be a man. It has been 18 years since my father’s death, and I am still learning from the memories I have of him.
There was a girl named Kandy, she was 15 years old. Her life was extremely boring, all she ever did was go to school, go on her computer, eat and sleep. She spent all summer on her computer. She was really good with HTML and spent her free time making web sites. Kandy didn't have many friends and rarely talked to guys because she was shy and unconfident about her looks. That's why she went into chat rooms. She made a web site with pictures of herself on it and told people in chat rooms to go there. A lot of people would tell her how pretty she was and some would say she was ugly. That made her feel awful. When anyone would say anything nice to her, she wouldn't believe them and think that they were just making fun of her. She only had one real friend that she could talk to, her name was Ang.
If my Mom did not give in to my requests I would just throw a simple temper tantrum and five minutes later victory would be mine. On the other hand, when my dad was around, everything was to be done his way. If he didn’t think I needed it, I would not get it, no matter how much complaining and whining. In my Dads mind I had to deserve everything I received, if I did something wrong a couple days earlier he would remind me about it as I was asking for a bike or whatever else it is I wanted. Don’t get me wrong, my dad wasn’t a mean guy or an abusive father, I knew my limits and when I would get dumb enough to cross that line, he was right there to put me back in my place.