Beating a Dead Horse- Part 3

Beating a Dead Horse1

Part 32

“Please put the doctor on the phone because I’m not making any sense, blame everyone but me for this mess.”3

-Fall Out Boy4

After three months of silence I finally spoke. And apparently that means I’m ok, so they moved me out of that house. I went into foster care and moved to the state of Mississippi, so that my dad wouldn’t know where I was when he got out of jail. I was still depressed and constantly being watched for suicidal signs. I was still going to school through all of this, and my grades were suffering dramatically. I was told I’d have to take summer school or repeat eighth grade. I moved into a house where I was the only child, something I’d never really gotten used to in Oklahoma. They were young, mid thirties, and not used to having a thirteen year old guy in the house with them. I’m sure I didn’t make it much easier for them, I was a bit of a basket-case, but they didn’t really do much to make the transition easy on me. This is probably my fault but the man found out within the first month there that the only way to control me was physically, and he took full advantage of that fact. I fought back but I was too weak to make any sort of an impact, so his authority remained. 5

I continued to cut and bleed, but I had lost the need to beat myself. My foster dad did that for me. It pissed me off that he was treating me that way, but there was nothing I could do about it. I was too depressed to care too much. I figured I deserved it, and I had better just shut up and take it. That’s how it had always been, and I figured this was no different. I took what he dished out until one day, I had enough. I just had had it with him. I came in late from a basketball game and just went back to my room, but that wasn’t what he wanted.6

Before I knew it he had my arm twisted behind my back, asking me where the hell I’d been, who I’d been with, why the hell I hadn’t called him. Something inside me just didn’t want to take his shit that night. His knee slammed into my ribs and something snapped. I socked him in the face. 7

He stepped back a little, enraged by my new found will to fight, and jumped back at me. This time I was ready, and I took him a little more solidly. I still fell back but I continued to fight and we rolled into the hall, kicking and punching and yelling at each other. Blood rushed to my head and I was fighting blindly, my eyes covered by the red of the blood pulsing through them. He was beating the shit out of me, but I was making it at least semi-difficult for him. I didn’t realize how much ground we’d covered until I felt open air beneath my head; the stairs. Before I had time to react he slammed my head down and I went down them, trying desperately and blindly trying to grab onto something. My attempts were in vain, and I crashed to the bottom of them, dazed and broken, and within a few seconds I was out cold. 8

Needless to say, that was the end of that. 9