The sweet shop

I was a sickly child.  Small, frail and never in good health.  The doctor said it was a condition that I would grow out of by the time I became an adult.1

For a while in my youth I assumed that knowledge was part of what inspired my dad to be so abusive.  Of course at the time I also assumed it might have been due to his training in the military.  You don’t teach love to people who you planned to send into battle to kill the enemy.2

So despite my small stature and less that robust health, it didn’t keep him from making sure he occasionally exhausted his anger on me with both physical punishment and insults.  For some odd reason he never felt the same inspiration in terms of my older brother or sister.  It was all reserved for me.3

And having grown up before the current era where a hint of child abuse can end up with a parent facing all kinds of legal issues, I quickly found myself living in a constant state of fear and depression.  My mother was of no help.  She seldom found her way out of bottle long enough to pay attention to such events.4

Perhaps I might not have even survive to adulthood without any permanent physical injury if it hadn’t been for a visit my family made one summer when I was twelve to my mom’s sister’s house for a vacation.  Aunt Kate was a nice lady and always smiled.  But I mainly enjoyed our visit because my father managed to restrain his need to abuse me during the visit.  I wished I could have stayed there forever.5

One night I couldn’t sleep and wandered downstairs while everyone else was in bed.  Something drew me to the room Aunt Kate used for a combination of study and library.  Her huge house had been inherited from her parents.  I assumed life had granted her this blessing as compensation for the fact that she had never married.6

Most of the books on the shelves were novels and the usual kinds of works one would expect in a library.  Those had no interest for me.  But I felt drawn to her desk.  So I sat down in the chair and felt this uncontrollable urge to open the bottom left hand drawer. 7

In it there was a small leather bound book that looked very old.  On the cover was the name of my mother’s family in gold calligraphy letters.  Curious, I opened it.  To my surprise it turned out to be some kind of family history.  Most of it wasn’t all that interesting.  A lot of records of births and deaths.8

That was until I reached the page about the “sorcerer” branch of the family.  It was a mystical side of my mom’s family who had special powers.  From what I read, this power was passed down genetically, but sometimes it skipped a few generations.9

What was evident of this power in a descendant was a small birthmark shaped like a heart on the inside of one’s left bicep.  That note made me swallow hard because I had one of those birthmarks.  Me?  Special powers?  Impossible!10

I went back upstairs and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t.  All of sudden my mind exploded with thoughts.  The first was of becoming aware that my father had known of this reality.  And it accounted for his abuse of me and not my siblings.   He was afraid of what would happen if I found out about this power.  My mother, living with the same fear and knowledge, apparently chose to retreat to the bottle rather than risk facing the fact that she had given birth to what could be a monster.  One thing I did know from what I read was that this power was among other things a form of protection.  Hence, my father was restrained by it without my even knowing from killing me.11

Yet I was confused, why bother to risk my learning the truth by bringing me to this house?  Then I vaguely remembered my mom on the phone to her sister saying we were coming for a visit.  The part about making sure the “book” was hidden made sense now.12

It was supposed to locked up and not out in the open.  But the drawer hadn’t been locked!  I shuddered at the idea that perhaps some ancestral force had intervened.  Realizing that despite my father’s insistence that we not ever come to Aunt Kate’s the fact that several events all took place that summoned us here made this possibility even more chilling.  What other explanation could there be for his company deciding to open an office in the nearby town and he being picked to go and check out the location?  And there were the other series of bizarre events that ultimately and reluctantly forced him to take us all with him.  I tried not to ponder the reality, just to sleep.13

The next morning I awoke, not feeling any different.  But I was more drawn by the reality that I heard my mother crying from downstairs.  When I got up and went out into the hall, I saw her standing by the front door with some police.  From what I heard, apparently my aunt had died from a heart attack during the night.14

I went down stairs and when nobody was watching I entered the study again.  I made it to the desk and tried the drawer.  This time it was locked!  I didn’t even want to think of what force had left it open for me to read.15

We returned home after the funeral.  And for the first week everything returned to normal.  My father once again doled out abuse as usual.16

Then one night, between the tears, I had this moment of pure rage, which formed an image in my brain of my dad falling and breaking his neck.  Not dying, but being left paralyzed for life.  Like so many fantasies I let it pass without giving it any further thought. 17

That is until the next afternoon.  I came home from school and my mother was sitting in the living room completely sober.  She broke the news that my father had fallen in the office, broke his neck and was paralyzed for life.  It had been a freak accident.  No one could even figure out what had made him trip.  It was a mystery that would never be solved.18

But I knew the truth.  It had been the power, awaken in me by too much abuse.  I sense for some strange reason that price of the knowledge had somehow cost my aunt her life.  It was as if she had chosen to serve as a sacrificial lamb in order that I would discover my gifts.  It made her comment to me about having a special “present” for me all the more amazing.  At least one person I could call a relative had showed me the kind of love I had never known.  And now thanks to her, my father his ability to abuse me was over.  I wished I could have sadder about his accident, but I did put on a good act.19

Slowly this power grew in my life.  And I eventually learned it had limitations.  I couldn’t use it on more than one person at a time.  I couldn’t kill anyone or hurt someone that hadn’t hurt me.  The only exception was if I saw someone hurting another.  Then I could as a matter of aid render the abuser incapacitated, but only temporarily, which sometimes was enough.20

So over the years, I took a small amount of pleasure in getting revenge against those who tormented me.  The incidents of strokes, blindness and a host of other ills that befell my tormenters never drew much suspicion.  I was always careful to not duplicate the same injury or accident too often.21

Now days, I’m content with working at a dead end job.  My power has afforded me a certain knack of winning at gambling, but only enough to augment my minimum wage salary I earned working as a clerk at retail store.  I know this is another limitation placed on me by the nature of the power that I now have refined.  Fame is one thing I will not have.22

In the process however, I have been able to mature my little gift and rent a special “place” to reward those who cause me pain.  I call it the Sweet Shop because I use my little hide out to dispense the sugar of revenge. 23

I love visiting there and enjoy passing on to those who thought me unworthy of being treated like a human being my own brand of gratitude for their evil.  It is enough at times to expose the person to the full range of hallucinations and sensory experiences that exploit their greatest fears without leaving a single noticeable mark on their flesh.  There is a special happiness for me on certain occasions with a truly deserving person to leave him or her unable to speak or move, but still screaming in their mind from having all their nerves feel like they are on fire.24

And who knows, perhaps someday I’ll wait on you at my retail store.  I do hope you smile and are courteous.  Otherwise, you might be a guest at my Sweet Shop too.25