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This is the introduction and a part of the first chapter of a book. The book iscurrently with publishers and due to be released by April 2010. It is a sneak peakof what is to come...“Autobiography of a Marionette”Dear Reader,This book is a genuine recollection of my life to date. Within the pages arecontained the secrets of my soul and the very nightmares that I have been unableto exorcise. I wish I had made it all up, however, my imagination is not so greatthat I could ever dream up such horrors without personal experience. I ask thatyou do not judge me. I am not judging you for being a voyeur. Everything fromrape, through to cancer, discovering that life is not always fair and all the inbetween... that if you give people a chance - you may be pleasantly surprised tolearn that there are genuinely good people left in this world who actually give adamn. This is me - raw and naked. I write this so that you do not have to sufferas I have.Thank you for all those who cared enough to help me learn to live in a safe, happyand healthy environment.Namaste,Me...“Close every door to me;Hide all the world from me;Bar all my windows and shut out the light.Do what you want with me;Hate me and laugh at me;Darken my day time and torture my night.If my life were important IWould ask, will I live or die,But I know the answers lie far from this world.Close every door to me;Keep those I love from me...”~ Joseph and the amazing technicolour dreamcoat ~A long, long, time ago... no wait, was it?“We're all of us sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, forlife!”~ Tennessee Williams ~The feeling is akin to solitary confinement. You sit in your cell all alone,reaching out to the outside world, yet no one sees your heart bleeding nor youbreaking apart like a dropped porcelain doll. The fear, when someone dares toactually peep in and check to see whether you are still breathing, is so great,that you try and crawl further and further away. It is inconceivable that anotherhuman being wants to be near you. Your cell, your body, makes you claustrophobic,you feel invaded, dirty...This is how it feels whenever anyone tries to gain access to your corpse.Once upon a time, there was an invasion. You learnt to withdraw. The closer theycame, the further you withdrew. Now there is no place even for you to move orhide.There is only an outline of you left. A wall, built to withstand any furtheronslaughts or sieges, encircles you. It is big and strong. No one will be able to

hurt you again.You feel nothing.All they see, is an empty shell that you allow to face the big, bad world. Theydon’t notice the small child crying on the inside, sobbing, heart-wrenching tearsof pain, falling apart, agonisingly piece by piece. They observe the shell as itsmiles, plodding along, doing all that needs to be done. Yet the scars still oozepoison. The smile never reaches the eyes. The pain is imprinted in each glance,motion, and cell.The skin is your book. It has dutifully recorded everything, waiting for judgementday.No one hears your pleas for help. The small, invisible child within walks fromperson to person, innocently offering them your soul. She yearns for love, foraffection, to be wanted and needed. She wants to believe that there are goodpeople in the world. She refuses to fall into a bottomless pit of depression.They all ignore her, pretending that she doesn’t exist. It’s easier that way.Some even blame her for all that has happened.“You are disgusting and filthy. You encouraged this. It is all your fault.”She starts to believe them.Maybe she is crazy. Maybe her imaginary ‘evil’ twin is making this all up.But you didn’t do anything wrong. Did you?Maybe it was what you were wearing?Maybe it was because you are good for nothing else? Maybe you had to be broken?I guess, it had to be you, since it didn’t only happen once. It happened again andagain.You must have encouraged it!But you were so young...They stole your innocence. They made you grow up when you were still a baby.What does a child of three know? How can a child of five know any better?The memories are foggy.Maybe I am making it all up?Why does it hurt to try and remember?Maybe your mind knows it is best to seal those doors and never re-open them.The memories keep returning, like a long forgotten night-mare.Hands touching, exploring a body not yet mature enough to understand - neither thesensations nor what is about to happen. How does a child know what is right andwhat is not?Secrets.No one can keep a secret as well as a child.Teach a child to lie and they will never betray you.Nothing happened.Pretend that it was all a bad dream. Keep pretending and hiding and lying...How long can one hold everything in before it starts to leak or explode?Why is life so cruel?Who could do something so horrible? Why didn’t it stop?Life slowly becomes more and more depressing, suffocating, too much to bear...Death seems like sweet salvation. Why continue living when life only holds painand abuse?The pain and tears keep you grounded. They stop you from disappearing completely.From leaving your wretched body. If only you could hide some place nice andsafe...Your hair is wrapped around his hands. He has twisted it for better grip and thepain makes your eyes water. You don’t cry. It only angers him. You were told tostop being a baby and to be strong. You’re an adult now. Stop being a wimp.The carpet burns your thigh as he drags you to bed. A blow to your face causes youto withdraw to that place where no one can hurt you. Somewhere in the distant hazeyou can hear the grunting and the derogatory name calling but it is too distant toaffect you. You know those hands are touching you, rubbing you, trying to enteryou but you withdraw further.

It will all be over soon.He gets angrier and more frustrated.How dare you not respond? How dare you not let him in? You slut! You whore! He isyour master. He owns you. He is skilled and knows how to get any girl to respond.All the other girls have told him so. What is wrong with you?Instead, he jerks off all over your face and breasts, all the while telling youthat you are a filthy bitch. The hot oozing semen burns your body like acid. He isbranding you.You slowly slip out of bed unnoticed and walk into the bathroom. His sleepingform, a visible outline on the bed in the darkness.The mirror reflects large, vacant eyes full of unshed tears.Another bruise. How to disguise this one?The semen is making a hot trail down your breasts, stomach and thighs. You gag.Nausea sweeps over you in a sickly tide. You turn on the taps to scorching hot.You want to wash away the memory, the grime, him. If you could remove your skinyou would gladly. Instead, you scrub and scrub until the skin becomes red raw andstarts to bleed in places. You wish for death even more passionately than usual.Your soundless wails of anguish fall on deaf walls.How can no one see my misery? Why won’t anyone help?Everyone wants something from me. They all take. Why won’t anyone give?A tiny defiant girl of three or so, dressed in a white dress resembling a miniwedding gown, looking uncertainly into a mirror. It is dark, except for theflicker of a candle in the distance. A hazy face stares out from behind. Can’tmake out if it is a man or a woman. The girl remembers playing mummies anddaddies. Remembers running down the street, tears streaming down her face.Remembers running inside and locking herself in the toilet. Remembers cleaningherself up and washing her face, a lie ready to explain the puffy red eyes. Therewere tears and a prayer for a merciful death.How can a child so young wish to be dead? Who would do such a thing?Who was it? Do I really want to know?Lying to the parents. Telling them I had tripped and hurt myself.“Let me take your daughter for a ride to the shops. She can choose a present forherself while you finish making lunch.”Who was he that your parents entrusted their young daughter of five with?Stale cigarette smell lingered in the car. The worn, orange-brown leather seats.The tough seat belt they made you put on. The hand slowly sliding up your skirt.The rough hand stroking your panties.“Please don’t. I don’t like it.”You are old enough to know that he makes you uncomfortable but you don’t know why.A back handed slap stings your cheeks.Silent tears fall into your lap as he turns the car around.“What’s that red mark on your face?” asks your mother.“She was being naughty,” replies the strange man.Mum slaps you too.“How dare you misbehave? No presents for you!”She doesn’t know. You try to protect her from the scary man. You know more thanshe does.Night time is worst. Can’t sleep. A slap and a trip to the doctor for wetting yourbed.You are too old for that. Only babies wet their beds. What is wrong with you?Sleep is a time for night mares. Why can’t I get a moments peace? Why do theyalways have to win?No one cares. You are on your own. Get used to it. You can’t trust anyone. Don’trely on anyone for help either. No one understands.“Get over it!”How? Tell me how and I will gladly do it! Don’t you think I want all of this to goaway too?Do you think I enjoy or take some morbid pleasure from reliving my past?

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Autobiography of a Marionette

This is a short of a book currently at the publishers due to be released in April 2010. It is only the introduction and part of chapter one.

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Category:	Books - Non-fiction
Rating:	(1 Rating)
Upload Date:	08/10/2009
Copyright:	Traditional Copyright: All rights reserved
Tags:	Life relationships happiness depression hospital rape cancer growing up Life relationships happiness depression hospital rape cancer growing up (fewer)