Where I Came From - More History

I've read that a lot of people like me come from broken homes. I'm not really sure what that means, but whether my home was broken or not, it certainly had some cracks. My Dad was a pussy as long as I can remember, either hiding all the time in his workshop or on the road. My sister was a whore, but she could do no wrong in the eyes of my parents. I think my Dad was probably doing her, but I can't be sure, and Mom never said anything. If they were screwing it meant she didn't have to, so she was fine with that. I haven't seen my sister in years. I'm not sure what I'd say to her if I saw her.

My Mom was a real piece of work. Crazy as a shithouse rat, and that's coming from me. I know that shehad Borderline Personality Disorder, but then I had no idea what was going on. She's twist from loving and cheerful to a psychotic bitch in the blink of an eye. You never knew what would trigger her storms, or what direction they would blow. Dear old dad would hide until it blew over, sis would go off in a corner where no one noticed her, so it always seemed that I was the one the winds favored.

I remember one time I dropped my toothbrush in the bathroom. She saw me rinse it off, and

Image via Wikipedia

flew into a rage. She felt that it was disgusting to use a toothbrush that was on the floor, so she grabbed by cup and filled it with water from the toilet. She made me drink the water, saying if I was so filthy that I could brush with a dirty toothbrush, I could drink toilet water. I was four years old.

Then there was the time she was angry because a neighbor had made a comment about our yard that she found insulting. It had nothing whatsoever to do with me. But there wasn't anyone else around to take her crazy anger out on, so she chased me around the house, beating me with a broom handle. I jumped out a window and ran off into the woods, where I stayed for three more hours until she calmed down. I knew the storm had blown away when she stopped throwing rocks and some of my smaller toys at me in the woods.

Often she would hit me just because she was having a bad day. Then she would joke about it with her friends. Real funny shit, that.

It was like that all the time. I truly hated that bitch. But not at first. After all, she was my mother. Who hates their mother, even when she's a flaming psycho? You're a kid, you don't know any better. You figure if she's holding you down and burning you with a cigarrette, it's because you were a bad child. If she's making you drink drain cleaner, it's because she's trying to make you learn how to act around your betters.

It was a long time before I realized it wasn't me, it was her. By then there was a lot of rage in me. But the last time she hurt me, I let that rage out. It came washing over her in the form of a gasoline can and a match.

The authorities said it was an accident, possibly arson. Since it killed both my parents, and my sister and I were sent off to join the ranks of the social worker elite, no one thought to connect the accelerant to me. If they had known how she treated me, they might have looked a little closer. Then again, they might not have.

Fire can be a wonderous, cleansing thing.