(Is There No Hope Left In The World?) I Cried So Hard, I Was Hyperventilating

Is there no hope left in the world?  I often ask myself this question, when considering all the frailties going on within the fences of society.  There is the frost bitten solitude leaving a sense of consorting loss of mankind’s fortitude.  I recall a time when I was sitting upstairs on my bed in my bedroom when I was 8 ½ years old reading a copy of the Weekly Reader, a news periodical specially for elementary students, designed to educate them about the current events going on in the world.

I read aloud to myself the atrocities a family went through in Europe during World War II.  They fled their homeland in a hot air balloon to go across the border, traveling from their homeland to a nearby nation where they hoped to find solace in a new realm.  However, they were met by the authorities who had no choice but to send them back to their homeland, because of a mutual understand between political leaders and authorities.

While sitting cross legged on my bed, I shook the periodical out, and folded it along it’s creases, saying aloud to myself, “Gee.  How awful for those people to have to have gone through such a thing.  No one knows the atrocities of life better than folks who can relate to them, like I do.  I wonder why and how things could so bad for me at home, living in a war going on, because we have to put up with the violence inflicted upon us by my father.”

I climbed out of my bed, while grasping tightly to the periodical, walked over to my closet, climbed on top of the step the was also a built in small size containment with a huge drawer, and put the periodical on my book shelf in between my books.  Then I jumped down.  I slipped and fell, twisting my ankle in the process.  Although it hurt, it was broken.  At such a young age, I knew if it were broken, I wouldn’t be able to move it.

I cried loudly for a while, until my father ran up the stairs and barged into my bedroom, finding me on the floor of the closet.  “What the matter with you.  Everyday that goes by, you’re always doing something to hurt yourself,” he growled, while grabbing a hold of my hair and slapping my face, “Get up.”

As I struggled to get up, he grabbed me by the arm with one hand, removing his belt with another, and struck my on my legs and on my back with it.

I cried so hard, I was hyperventilating.  I couldn’t catch my breath.  The more I cried, the worse things got for me.  He struck me continuously until he got tired.

Lifting me up in the air, he threw me against the wall, causing my body to drop helplessly to the ground.  He walked over and spat on me.  Then he headed out of my bedroom.

I waited until he went back downstairs, before I got up and stumbled to the bathroom, where I locked the bathroom door, sat on the floor, and cried while using toilet paper to clean my nose.

“Why do you let these bad things happen to me, God?  What did I do to be born into a family where my father doesn’t like me?  I did nothing to deserve to be treated so badly by him.  What is it going to take for me to get piece of mind inside my house?  Isn’t there anything you can do?  There must be something you can do to free from the bondage of torment and tyranny.  If only there was someway I could blink my eyes like Jeannie in the t. v. show, I Dream Of Jeannie, or wiggle my nose like Samantha Stevens does in the t. v. show, Bewitched, so I could make my violent father and the problems he brings to us disappear.”

Getting up from the floor, I threw the tissues into the garbage basket, walked over to the sink, and washed my face.  I looked at myself in the mirror where I came face to face with my own misery.  For this was the song my life comprised.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015

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