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This story may NOT be archived in ANY FORMAT whatsoever in existence today or under development now or developed in the future for public display, FOR FREE or PAY without the expressed WRITTEN consent of the author. Midnight downloads is available electronically, for free. It will NEVER be found on a pay to access site with the author's permission!

This is a work of fiction. Any people, places or locations within are purely fiction and the product of the author's imagination, or their names are used to add realism and/or for satirical purposes. Their use does not constitute any type of endorsement or agreement, in part or in whole, with any belief or message, expressed, implied or otherwise inferred by the author and the story/story line, nor do they imply any endorsement of the story or author.

This story contains scenes of EXTREME VIOLENCE, mature subject matter and deals with alternative lifestyles. If you are not comfortable with these concepts and materials, STOP reading NOW. If you are under the age of seniority and consent where you live, or if these types of materials are illegal for you to read, possess or download, you must STOP reading NOW and you may NOT download this story. If you are very religious, this work will probably anger you. Do not read it. Do not download it. Hello, nice to see you, GO AWAY. You'll be more comfortable at http://www.disney.com please go there instead of here.

 

Midnight Downloads
by Wendy-J
Wendy-J@KimEM.net
© 1999-2004 Wendy-J All Rights Reserved.
Unauthorized distribution or archival prohibited.

 

Part-9
Midnight Downloads

Note:
WARNING: This part of Midnight Downloads has a scene that depicts VERY GRAPHIC AND EXTREME VIOLENCE. As the author, I WILL NOT APOLOGISE FOR ITS INCLUSION IN THIS STORY. It can be construed -- by some -- to be gratuitous violence. I concede this point as its inclusion is not integral to the story line. Only a mention that it happened is necessary to further the story.

I argue that it is not gratuitous because while the story can be successfully read without it, it describes -- in shocking, horrifying detail -- something that happens every day. It depicts – in gruesome, disgusting detail -- something that occurs to thousands of men, women and children in this country, and in every country around the world. It depicts something that must stop.

Why should it be included? Read the violence and tell me if you can live under that cloud of fear every day of your life and not come out of it with a permanently skewed outlook on life and society. I have included it to allow you to understand why quiet, sweet, innocent, little Johnny Doe can pick up a knife -- and hack away at -- and kill mommy or daddy, and have it be justifiable homicide with over 100 knife wounds in the corpse. You need to feel the horror, the terror, the helplessness they feel to truly understand. I fear my words have missed their mark. They are only words, after all, and I am not that good a writer.

Yes, the violence CAN be skipped without taking anything away from the readability of the story. It has been marked by a double row of asterisks, for those of you whose sensibilities are too delicate to read something so…terrifyingly graphic.

Some have speculated that I have lived through something like this. Have I? You tell me. Now, back to our irregularly scheduled story.

Wendy-J

**********************

The Beginning of Part-9

Saturday Night September 5^th

Back at The Under-World, the sales day was drawing to a close. The mall's paging system announced that the doors to the mall would be locked in 30 minutes. Jenny walked over to the register where Samantha was ringing up the last customer of the night.

"Thank you for shopping at The Under-World; have a safe drive home."

Sam was so happy with the day's events that she was practically dancing to the quiet waltz playing over the store's speakers. As she started getting more into the rhythm of the music, she bumped into something soft where nothing had been a moment before. She turned and saw her employer standing there, a wide smile beaming from her handsome face.

"Oh! Mrs. Winchester, I didn't see you come over," Sam said brightly. "Is everything all right?"

"Just fine, Honey. You did a marvellous job today. It was nice to be able to send Marjorie home at a reasonable hour for a change," the stately proprietress said. "Let me show you how to close the register, then I'll give you that trim we talked about earlier."

Jennifer Winchester took the girl through the checkout procedures quickly. The cash drawer balanced out perfectly on the first go-'round. Then, true to her word, Jennifer escorted Sam into the salon for her haircut.

**********************

In the salon, Jenny was just finishing Sam's shampoo. "So have you decided on a style, Sam?" she asked.

"Well..." Sam hesitated.

"'Well' what? Does that mean 'yes,' 'no,' or 'I'm afraid to tell you what I really want'?"

"The latter, I guess," the young girl said, her countenance darkening. "What I mean is, I really would like a short bob. Almost like what the 'Beatles' made popular in the '60's, but..."

"But what? Are you afraid of what your classmates will say at school?"

"No, not my classmates. Heck, they don't even notice me. No, it's my parents. My Dad wants his darling little girl, and well..."

"You don't exactly fit the 'sugar and spice' mould. Is that it?" Jenny asked.

"Yes'm. Dad just doesn't like the way I dress or act. He wants a little princess and I really don't fit the bill. I never liked all the frills and fluff he wanted me to wear when I was little. Sometimes, I just wish I were a boy. There would be things I miss about being a girl and all, but dresses sure aren't part of it."

"Then here's what we're going to do. I'm going to give you the cut you described. You're eighteen now and know your own mind. If your parents have any difficulty with it, tell them I botched the first cut and had to do this to make it look good. Have them call me if they have a problem. I'll back you up all the way. Okay, Sweetie?"

"Do you really mean it?" Sam said, brightening.

"I sure do, Sam. Come on over to my chair, 'Ms Beatle to be!'" Jennifer Winchester said. "It's time you expressed who you really are!"

Thirty minutes later, Sam looked in the mirror. The hairstyle, though reminiscent of the "Beatles" bob, was a bit shorter, closer to a "Peter Pan," or a "Victor-Victoria" look. Her makeup, a bit smudged at the edges from the shampoo, was a stark contrast to the rest of her. She looked like a boy with a bosom.

"Well?" Jenny asked, a smile on her face.

"I think it's perfect!" Sam responded happily.

"Great! I think your makeup needs some attention though. Why don't you sit back down and I'll fix it for you."

"Oh, don't bother, Mrs. Winchester, I can fix it in a heart beat," Sam said with a laugh. "I don't dare go home without it now!"

True to her word, Sam repaired the damage in just a few moments. Then, the day's work done, the two women, a study in contrasts, left the store via the parking lot entrance. "It's awfully late, Samantha; why don't you let me give you a ride home?" Jenny said.

"Thanks, Mrs. Winchester, but I rode my bike in today. It's over in the bike rack by the main entrance."

"Oh, that's not a problem, Honey, I drove the van today. We'll just put it in the back."

"Thanks! That'd be great! I really wasn't looking forward to the ride home. I'm exhausted."

"Working the front of the store is harder than it looks, isn't it?"

"It sure is," the teen said. "I'll never understand how Marjorie does it. She seems to thrive on it."

"That she does, Sam, that she does. But then, Marjorie has some very special talents, as you will come to see. Running the store is just one of them. Let's get your bike and get you home."

In no time at all, Samantha's bike was in the back of Jenny's van. The ride to Sam's home only took a few minutes. Sam thanked Jenny for the ride, hopped out, and pulled her bike from the side door of the full sized cargo van.

"Thanks again for the ride, Mrs. Winchester. I'll see you on Monday, after school."

"You're quite welcome, Sam. You have a nice day off tomorrow."

With that, Jenny drove off.

**********************

Sam's spirits were soaring. Along with her new clothes and her new duties at the store came a substantial raise in pay, plus a commission on every item she sold. She was so happy that she never even noticed her father's car, parked at an angle to the kerb a few houses down the block. There was a new crease in the driver's door.

James Boone, Samantha's father, was a travelling salesman for a flooring company. His territory covered several neighbouring states, so he was seldom home. When he was, he made life a living hell for Sam and her mother, Donna. When her father was home, a key to the atmosphere of the house was the way his car was parked. James Boone was an abusive alcoholic. If her father's car was parked properly, the odds were in favour of things being quiet in the house. If it was parked as it was now, it would be probably be better to stay out all night and face the consequences for that in the morning, when he was sober.

Sam's father wasn't due home for another week. With her new promotion at work, her new hairstyle and her new clothes, Sam was on cloud nine. It never occurred to her to look for the car. She wheeled her bike into the shed in the back yard. With the bag of new clothes and the clothes she wore to work in her hand, she opened the back door and went into the mudroom off the kitchen. Sam smelled the sour stench of booze before she even saw him. Her spirits plummeted.

"Oh no," she cried to herself, "not now. Please, god, not now." Her shoulders slumped and she began to tremble. She didn't have time to do more than that.

James Boone stormed into the mudroom, his florid face contorted in rage.

"Just where the fuck have you..." he began. He stopped in mid sentence when he saw her.

He stared down at his daughter from his six-foot height, glowering through his glassy, bloodshot eyes. Samantha, eyes wide, stood there shaking in terror. It was only for a second or two that he had paused in his tirade. It seemed to Sam to be an eternity. Without saying another word, he punched Samantha in the face.

It was with slow motion clarity that Samantha saw the huge hand, coming at her. Her mind said, "Move or this is going to do more than hurt." Another part of her mind said, "Move and he'll make you wish you didn't and if he hits something else, it'll be pure agony for you." She was torn between what she should or shouldn't do, she froze.

**********************

James Boone's meaty hand connected with the side of her face with a sickening splat that knocked her off her feet and into the dryer across the room. The impact of the blow caused a brief numbing and tingling sensation as lights flashed within her head and her ears began ringing. There was an odd taste in her mouth. It was metallic, but it wasn't blood. Her impact with the dryer was softer, its case collapsed, cushioning the blow as it slid backwards into the wall. She hit the dryer with enough force to cave in the plaster of the wall behind it, before everything came to a halt. The world around her seemed to spin and reverberate. Sounds came to Samantha as if through some demented reverb system of the sixties, drawn out and distorted in a maniacal slow motion echo. It was strange how the blow had no feeling of pain associated with it. There was just an all-encompassing tingly sensation. Sort of like the pins and needles of a numb arm or leg, but nowhere as sharp, alive or painful. She just lay there, too stunned to move and too terrified to make a sound for fear of angering her father further thereby egging him on.

"What the fuck have you done to your hair?!?" he bellowed. "And what the HELL do you call what you're wearing?!? HUH? ANSWER ME, GOD DAMN IT!!!"

"I..." Samantha began in a tiny voice from her crumpled heap on the floor. She never got the chance to finish.

He kicked her in the ribs, its force lifting her off the tiles and causing her to fall back down with a thump that was almost like a drum roll as each part of her body came back in contact with the tile floor.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? I leave my wife and daughter for a couple of weeks while I earn money to put a fucking roof over your god damned heads and feed your worthless faces, and I come home to this?!?"

He kicked her again. Then he bent down, grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked her to her feet. Holding her at arm's length by her hair, he backhanded her across the mouth. More lights - it was like a drug. No pain, just tingling numbness. Sam noticed the coppery taste of blood as her teeth cut into her lip. At that point it was as if a switch was thrown in Sam's head. It was like she was there watching the beating instead of having it happen to her, yet the horror and terror were still there, but it was like nothing was really connected to her somehow.

"You want to be a FUCKING BOY?!? I'll treat you like a god damned 'boy'!" James Boone yelled.

Each word was perfectly enunciated and spat out with a derision and sarcasm that chilled all who heard it. An evil smile seemed to have formed at the corners of his mouth. He seemed to enjoy beating his daughter. That smile froze the blood in the veins of perfect strangers. It was a smile that Samantha had come to fear.

James threw her into the doorjamb. Her head rocked into the wood trim with a sickening crack and she fell to the floor like a rag doll. The pain, finally starting to creep through the numbing haze, was disconnected, almost as if it wasn't part of her, but part of the scene around her. The horror of the moment was palpable, a tangible entity that turned blood to ice.

Too terrified to make a sound and unable to move, even if she wanted to, she lay in a heap on the floor like a sack of yesterday's forgotten trash. Her mind screamed out, "Please let me die! Oh god, please let me die now! I can't take it anymore, PLEASE, GOD, PLEASE LET ME DIE!"

James Boone's six foot tall, two hundred fifty pound bulk stormed in her direction like a tornado bent on destruction, as Samantha struggled in vain to pick herself up. Her arms and legs wouldn't listen to the commands her brain tried to send them. They twitched uselessly, spasmodically ignoring Sam's instincts to flee. Fight or flight was no longer an option for Sam. Her body had already switched off. Only her mind was aware. He kicked her in the stomach, her breath rushed out of her in an involuntary "Oof!" Then Samantha's father picked her up by the hair again.

"What's the matter, 'SAM'!?" he screamed into her face. Her glazed eyes stared back at him, unseeing. He shook her by her hair like a doll. "I - can't - hear - you!"

There were lights and sounds, but nothing made sense to her abused mind. Her body heaved involuntarily, desperately trying to get much needed air into its lungs.

"Not 'man' enough to answer me?!?"

He punched her in the stomach, tearing out some of the hair clenched in his fist and sending her flying across the kitchen and into a heap at the base of the refrigerator. It rocked back and forth with the impact of her body. It looked, for a moment, like it would topple over on top of her. Sam couldn't breathe; the last two blows had paralysed her diaphragm.

"Look at what you did to the fucking dryer, you BITCH! I'm gonna make you pay for that, too!"

"JIM! NO!!!" screamed Donna as she rushed over to try and help her daughter, putting herself between Samantha and her husband as a shield.

"Stay the fuck out of this, bitch!" he yelled back, spittle flying from his lips, his face, purple with rage. "When I want your opinion, I'll beat it the fuck out of you! Till then, shut the fuck up! This is between me and my god damned wannabe son!" He backhanded Donna, knocking her away from Samantha. She hit the kitchen table low, folding two of its legs beneath it. It toppled on top of her, spilling its contents to the floor.

"Fucking slut!" he said. The interruption of her mother allowed Samantha to catch her breath. His eyes bulging, James picked Samantha up by her sweater. "Now, you worthless piece of shit, what the fuck is the matter with you?! HUH?" He threw her to the floor as punctuation to his question; the sound it made was like a bag of potatoes being dropped, only louder.

Donna, wanting desperately to help her child, but cowed by years of previous abuse, could only watch the ensuing nightmare progress. Knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, she rocked back and forth, much like an autistic child, crying softly. James pulled his belt off in a single mighty tug. The sound it made was chilling as it snapped through his trousers belt loops. Then he folded it in half and began to flog Samantha with it.

Donna saw the shadows of it all on the wall. It was like a scene from a perverse cartoon nightmare come to life. She couldn't bear to watch HIM, and she couldn't move to help her daughter. She simply rocked back, and forth, in a state of shock, crying at her inability to help her child and out of the fear that her daughter's life was truly in danger.

The tirade had just begun. It would continue on for several more hours. The worst of it was past, but that was no consolation to poor Samantha, she was still being beaten. What was worse in her mind? The fact that she didn't die. She would have to live to face yet another day.

His fit of rage against her spent, James Boone banished his daughter from his presence with, "Get the fuck out of my sight, you fucking dyke! Get out of here before I kill you!"

**********************

Barely able to move, Samantha half stumbled, half crawled to her bedroom, droplets of blood from her cut lips and scalp leaving a crazy zigzag trail behind her. She never bothered to change her clothes or clean herself up. She didn't have the energy to do it for one, and two, she was terrified of meeting her father in the bathroom. She just fell on her bed with a painful grunt, curled into a foetal position, her arms crossed under her breasts, hugging her bruised ribs. She hurt all over.

Samantha just lay there and sobbed quietly into her pillow. "Oh god, why me?" she moaned over and over again through her tears. She cried herself to sleep as her father screamed on into the night, his focus now her mother. Donna's sobbing pleas, a demented lullaby for the battered youth who felt guilty...guilty because she was glad she was no longer the target of the madman her father had once again become.

**********************

It was after ten thirty when Linda finally left for home. They had all pitched in to cleanup after dinner and spent a little time in the den, chatting over coffee. All in all, it had been a pleasant evening. "All right, Sweetie," Jan said. "It's time I hit the wooden hill and went up to bed. Be sure to hang your clothes up and clean off all your makeup before going to bed."

"Yes, Mother."

"And don't stay up all night on that computer!"

"All Right! Sheesh, you'd think I was eight years old!" Tina complained.

Tina was true to her word. After making sure all the doors were locked and all the lights out, she went up to her room.

"It's weird," she thought, "but I kinda like the ritual of going to bed now. Even the clothes are nicer." She put on a sheer blue baby-doll nightie and sat down at the "monster." After logging in, she went to "FM" and started her reading where she left off. It was two thirty when she finally finished what she had come to think of as her "Midnight Downloads," logged off, and went to bed. Lying there, waiting for sleep to take her, Tina couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had plagued her for the past hour or so.

"I hope Samantha's all right," she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

*************************

Sunday Morning September 6^th

The next morning Tina was up in time to join her mother for breakfast. Jan usually got up with the birds. Today was no exception. For Tina, it wasn't normal, nor was it planned; she just woke up.

"Good morning, sleepy head," Jan greeted her daughter, who was still clad in her nightie and robe. "So nice of you to dress for breakfast," she giggled.

"Morn…" came the monosyllabic reply.

"Well, I guess some things will never change," Janice said brightly.

Tina just poured a cup of coffee and made her way to the table, sliding her feet along the floor. Her slippers were identical to her mother's. Another of Jan's little "surprises." Tina sat quietly, eyes barely open and sipped her coffee. Jan, knowing better than to try and get her daughter to do more than acknowledge her presence before her coffee, sat and looked on in quiet amusement.

There was a faint knock at the back door. Jan and Tina glanced at each other with puzzled looks on their faces. It wasn't even six o'clock yet! Jan, having been up since five, was already dressed, so she answered the door.

It was Sam, bruised and bloodied, still wearing the torn and bloody clothes from the night before. Jan paled visibly at the battered youth on her doorstep. She made a sound somewhere between a cry and a scream. It was the kind of sound a mother makes when she sees one of her children badly or mortally hurt. Tina came running. She was ready to defend her mother, regardless of the cost; instead, she made the same noise when she saw her best friend. Rushing to her side, she gingerly helped the battered girl into the house. They held their questions until they had Samantha safely installed on the sofa in the den.

"I'm really sorry to bother you, Mrs. Wilson," Sam mumbled through her cut and swollen lips. "I just didn't know where else to go."

"Your Dad?" Tina asked. Sam just nodded her head. "I'll be right back. I need to…get some things to get you cleaned up. It's gonna be all right. Okay? Don't move." Tina grabbed her mother's hand and pulled her from the room.

Once they were in the kitchen, Tina hissed, "We need to get her a doctor. And I have some unfinished business with that…that…asshole!"

Her mother placed a finger to Tina's lips to stem her building tirade and said quietly, "She needs her friend and a doctor now; we'll worry about the rest later. I'll make some calls. You get the first aid kit and get her cleaned up. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Tina ran to the kitchen first aid kit and grabbed it, a bowl of warm water, and some tea towels, then went to help her friend. Janice went down to her office and started by calling her best friend, Linda.

*************************

"Huh? Wha?"

The phone chirped again with a double ring. It had to be important; it was the distinctive ring feature telling her it was one of her close friends. They KNEW she never rose before nine.

"Lo?" Linda answered groggily.

"Linda! Wake UP!" Janice hissed into the phone.

"Christ, Jan, what time is it? What's wrong?"

"It's Samantha; I need a doctor here now! Who do you know that makes house calls?"

"What?!? Wait a minute, le'me wake up," she said, sitting up and pulling the blanket around her shoulders. "What's going on? Why do you need a doctor?"

"It's Tina's friend Samantha; her father beat her pretty badly last night. I don't want to take her to an emergency room right now, but she needs a doctor."

"All right, Jan, I hear you. I'll make a couple of calls. Someone should be there shortly. I'm on my way."

As Linda hung up the phone, she cursed, "God damn him! He'll pay for this!" She started dialling the phone. Her first call was to Jennifer Winchester. The wheel had started rolling again and she was really going to enjoy it this time.

*************************

The first person to arrive at the house was Linda, still clad in her nightgown. She'd thrown on a trench coat, grabbed her purse and run out the door, still in her slippers. When she arrived, she acted like a general in charge of troops, ordering Tina and Jan about. Samantha was moved to the largest of the guestrooms and made comfortable in the king-sized bed there. Then she set Jan and Tina to work in the kitchen making a light breakfast. While they were cooking, Linda borrowed some clothes from Jan. As she dressed, she made another call to Jenny, clearing up some final details and apprising her of the situation.

Working in uncharacteristic silence, Jan and Tina prepared breakfast. As Janice turned to set the teapot on the counter, she noticed her daughter's shoulders shaking. Gently, she placed a hand on Tina's shoulder.

"Honey," she began.

Tina turned to her mother. Tears were streaming down her face. "I'll kill him... What did she ever do to him? Huh? What?! I'll kill him!!" she hissed vehemently.

Janice hugged Tina protectively. "Shh," she soothed. "I know, Honey, I know. It's not right, it never is. But right now, Samantha needs us. She needs you to be strong for her, but she also needs you here. Right now…she needs us both to be strong."

Tina's tears stopped and slowly, a look of resolve crept over her face. It was a look that both frightened, and somehow, reassured Jan that her daughter would be more than just "all right."

"That's my girl," Janice said. "Now, we'd better get the rest of these things ready before 'General Linda' comes back and court-martials us for disobeying orders."

Jan's gibe at Linda brought a sad smile to Tina's lips. The two continued their preparations with a renewed sense of purpose.

The doorbell rang just as Linda was on her way back up the stairs. "I've got it!" she yelled toward the kitchen. Linda opened the door to find the doctor, medical bag in hand, hair still a bit tousled from her bed. She was a beautiful woman, standing about five feet six-inches tall, with long, flowing, golden brown hair.

"Brandy!" Linda exclaimed relieved to see the woman. "Great! I was just on my way up to see her; follow me."

"It's nice to see you, too, Linda," Brandy said as she followed her friend up the stairs. "I especially love getting out of bed before six on a Sunday morning to the ringing of a telephone."

"Sorry, Brandy," Linda chuckled, "it really is nice to see you. I just wish it were under better circumstances. A very close friend of the family, of both families, has been beaten up pretty badly. Blame Jenny for calling you and the girl's father for making the call necessary. Hold on a sec."

Linda leaned back and shouted down the stairs. "Jan! It's the doctor. I'm taking her up to see Sam!" A muffled response came from the kitchen.

"Come on, Brandy, its time we earned our pay."

As Brandy finished her cursory exam, Jan and Tina came into the room. Tina was carrying a tray of tea, scones, marmalade and jam. She set the tray on the dresser and turned to Brandy in askance, while Jan turned to Linda.

Linda spoke first. "Janice Wilson, Tina Wilson, this is Dr. Brandy Dewinter."

"How is she, Doctor?" Tina asked.

"She should be all right. Aside from a broken nose, a minor concussion, some bruised and possibly broken ribs and some pretty nasty bruises, she should be fine. I really would feel better if we took her in for a few x-rays, but other than that, I really couldn't say. She'll be a bit stiff for a while, but a day or two in bed for some much needed rest ought to take care of everything else. I'm really surprised that's all that happened to her, considering.

"Now, I'd like a word alone with you and Janice, Linda. She," Brandy said, indicating Samantha, "can have clear liquids and those scones, or dry toast for now, Tina.

"Ladies? Where can we talk? I have some questions for you and we have some decisions to make."

As the women left the room, Tina brought the tray over to Samantha. Setting it on the nightstand she said, "Oh, Sam, how do you feel?"

"Like I've been run over by a truck," she mumbled through swollen lips.

"Can you sit up?"

"Yeah," she said, wincing as she moved around in the bed. "I'm really sorry for being such a bother. I didn't know where else to go. I couldn't stay there anymore."

Tina sat carefully on the edge of the bed; afraid she might hurt her friend with the simple act of sitting down.

"Hush... Don't worry about that. Here, have some tea," Tina said, holding the cup to her friend's lips. "You're not a bother, you're always welcome here. Right now, you concentrate on getting better."

Sam took a few sips of tea, and then gave a slight nod to Tina to indicate that she'd had enough for the moment. Tina set the cup down. The two were silent for a moment.

"Um," Tina began, "I like what you've done to your hair."

Sam let out a snort of laughter, then a few more chuckles. Then, abruptly, the laughs turned into sobs.

"Oh, gods, what did I say?" Tina thought as she gingerly held her injured friend, the tray of food forgotten for the moment.

**********************

As the three women descended the front stairs, the doorbell rang. Jan turned to the other women and said, "Would you excuse me a moment? Linda, would you please take the doctor into the parlour? I'll be there in a minute."

She answered the door as Linda led Brandy into the parlour. "Jenny?!? What are you doing here?!?" Standing at the door were Jennifer Winchester, dressed in a dark, finely tailored skirt suit, and a tall, almost bald woman, in an olive coloured silk pantsuit that covered her six-foot-two inch frame in such a way as to emphasize her every curve. Her shaved and now stubble covered head was a strangely erotic contrast to the sheer, sexual femininity she seemed to exude.

*************************

The End of Part-9
*************************

A Note of Explanation on Part-9 to You, My Readers.

Yes, this is a TG fantasy story: However, we -- as writers -- all describe petty problems and reasons for an excuse to do some of the things we describe in our stories. Not all of mine are, or will be. I guess they can't be, because life isn't that way. This was supposed to be a simple, feel good fluff piece at the start, just a short story about 50k in length. But, for some strange reason, I felt a need to tell this story in this way. A simple fluff piece just wouldn't come out. The result is before you.

Everyday, something like the beating I described in the preceding chapter happens in thousands of homes around the world. Not all the children and spouses survive them. Many of the victims are granted a permanent reprieve and are killed during one of these horrible ordeals by their abusive parent(s) or spouse. Did the beating I described sound too cold and cruel to be true? No-one is that cruel, you say? Think again. This was a depiction of one of the milder beatings. They can be, and often are, worse.

How many times have you heard or read about the newborn child found dead or dying in a Dumpster? The horribly burned little girl, whose hands were dipped in boiling water to teach her not to touch something that was not hers? To these children and spouses, death would be a welcome relief from the lives of pain fear and horror that they face every single day of their lives.

These children are not alone in the torment they suffer, but they think they are. What's worse, they believe it to be normal. People that live in an environment such as this do not leave this life. They want to leave it desperately, but they do not. This is because they fear what will happen in retribution, or retaliation, to themselves or to those they leave behind. Others stay out of fear that they will be tracked down, or hunted, for their traitorous act, and abused even worse for leaving. Yes, many believe it happens to everyone, everywhere. So why leave the devil you know to face a devil you don't?

Often, there is a parent who wishes to stop the violence. More often than not, this parent is as abused as their children, if not more so. They, too, have been cowed into the belief that they or their children will suffer more because they chose to try to intervene on their behalf, or to leave. This is not a subject to shrug off. This is a subject that must be addressed, for their sake. This chapter was for them, the helpless, the vulnerable, the innocent, and their children.

While abuse is more prevalent in the lower income areas and slums, it is everywhere. Please do not report the mother that slaps her child in the grocery. This in and of itself is not abuse; it may well be simple discipline. Corporal punishment is not always best, but sometimes it is the only thing that will work. There is a line between the two and it isn't always easy to distinguish. Five or six really good swats to a bottom are not abuse. Sometimes the adage, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," is very true. Too many people suffer because of false reports. Parents are afraid to discipline their children for fear of being reported for abuse. Please, don't ignore the problem. Where is the line? I can't say. It differs with each case. It's the systematic beatings, the demeaning verbal diatribes and eventually the maiming and emotional crippling that we need to stop.

Wendy-J.
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Continued in Part-10

  

  

  

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