“Mommy! Make it stop!”
The little girl’s plea fell on deaf ears, as her parents continued to rage at each other, full volume. It was the same scene every weekend. Father came home stinking drunk and Mother railed at him. They said horrible things to each other and once, Mother hurled a heavy, glass ashtray at his head. It broke open a large gash on his temple and she took him to the hospital. The little girl was home alone and peace reigned at last, but only for awhile.
Angry voices shattered the darkness and she woke up with a start. The sounds of vomiting and water running in the tub kept her awake. Just when she started falling asleep once more, loud, panicked shouts filtered through the walls.
“Mommy! Make it stop!”
Father was having yet another nightmare. Mother once told her they were fuelled by memories of his time in mortal combat. “He’s trying to drown them out with alcohol”, she lamented.
It was dawn by then, so the little girl left her bed and went into the kitchen. Grabbed a bowl of cereal and adjourned to the living room to watch cartoons. She knew it would be hours yet, before either one of her parents got up.
Staring at the TV, but, not really seeing, all she could think about was how depressing the rest of the day was going to be. Mother, tearfully complaining about her lot in life and what an awful man she was married to. Father, severely hung over and barely uttering a word, then slinking off to watch the football game.
The little girl so longed for a “normal” life, where parents adored each other and their children, as depicted in sitcoms of the day, like “Leave it to Beaver”. She would have given anything to have parents like that!
This was a rough road for an only child; no siblings to commiserate with, to gain strength from, to share the pain. The little girl was all alone.
Mondays should have brought relief, as she could escape to school. Here was another kind of hell though; thanks to the bullies who taunted and terrorized her. She did have a few friends and Father stayed sober until Friday, which made it all somewhat bearable.
Then, came the weekend , once more.
“Mommy! Make it stop”
Mommy didn’t.
© D.D.B. 2013
Don’t we all have some dark memories, buried deep in the recesses of our minds?
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Great writing, friend of mine! Remember the voice at the beginning of the Dragnet TV series? This is a true story, the names have been changed to protect the innocent. But Alice in Wonderland here says it isn’t!
Uh-oh. Busted!
It’s just easier to write about painful memories in the third person. More objective, too. SHHHHH! 
There’s another one, called “What If”. You would probably recognize something there too.
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Such a sad story. In answer to your question, “Don’t we all have dark memories?” No, I don’t and would hope a lot people don’t either. Am I lucky not to have dark memories as this? I always thought stories like this were the exception not the rule. Your question/statement bothers and intrigues me.
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Sorry it disturbs you, Joyce, but, I’m glad it’s also intriguing. In my opinion, there are more sad stories out there than most people imagine. Thanks for visiting!
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Hi Debbie,
Is it real?!
Reminds me of the part of my life where I was speechless and always thoughts running in my mind
No, my parents are not like that, but anger towards children can do the harm.
But those dark memories makes who we are
I’m grateful enough.
Survived and never let it happen
Cheers…
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Hello Mayura; I’ll leave that to speculation.
I agree that whatever dark memories we have shape who we are. Thanks for visiting today and have a great week! 
Debbie Doglady recently posted…FOLLOW FRIDAY FOUR FILL-IN FUN; MAR. 22/13
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A very powerful piece, Debbie – made me think about some reflections I had recently on a few posts I read around Mother’s day – all that adulation and no-one daring to mention that Mums don’t always get it right and sometimes let their children down, big time.
I want to know how this little girl’s life turns out!
Sue
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You know, that thought goes through my mind fairly often, as well. Not all mothers are completely wonderful. Let’s be optimistic and think the girl was able to overcome her disadvantages. Thanks for reading!
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Great story Debbie! Sad that anyone has to live through any kind of abuse.
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Hey!
This is amazing. Thanks for writing this. I can’t wait to see more posts! You did a pretty good job with this piece for sure.
Thank you for reading it, Jeremy. Glad you liked it.
Tuff read! Your a very gifted writer, Debbie!
Thank you, Joy.
Great incentive to keep at it. Cheers!
Tough story, and even though I want to hope that is not a true story, I have the feeling that it is.
How sad it is that some children have to grow up in household of violence. Something that never leave them.
Thanks for sharing this.
Thanks for reading it, Sylviane.
Yes, whatever happens in childhood shapes who we are.
Wow Deb, how profound and sad. I am hoping this wasn’t written from personal experience but my heart tells me that it was. Those memories last for a lifetime. It makes a person wonder why it is that the ones who are suppose to love and protect us…are often the abuser… Excellent work Deb
Thank you Norma. Really appreciate the visit and comments We gain strength from adversity.
Wow, that was one powerful story. I won’t even speculate on how true it might have been. Keep up the good, fearless writing.
Thank you so much, Loy. Will do my best.
Appreciate your time. Have a great weekend.
In my work I have heard that story many times before, unfortunately. Those children grow up and they either perpetuate the misery in their own children’s lives, or they become some of the strongest people I’ve ever met. I hope this child became one of the latter.
Yes, it’s sad how a dysfunctional childhood can wreak havoc in later life. As you said though, some have the strength to rise above and become better people. This old saying holds true in many cases: “Whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger”. Thanks for the visit and comment, Rumpydog. Happy trails!
I think this is more common than those who endure it realize. The saddest part, is that there were no siblings to confide in. I can’t imagine going thru it alone.
A sad, solitary existence, to be sure. Thanks for reading, G.