Anyway, at the end of a book is a tidbit I wrote which is very heartfelt to me. Its a fantasy piece and doesn't reflect me, other than to demonstrate the depth of compassion a person endures. Here is a tiny bit of it which I've just re-written because it didn't read right. Enjoy...if you can:
My father, who out of spite named
me Richard Dickless Johnson, thought he was being clever, my name representing
the pinnacle of humor and depravity. To this day I go by Connor and he hates me
for it, but he hates nearly everything this world has given him. His only love
was my mother and he blames me for her death, though it was his fists which
clubbed her to submission because she wouldn’t hand him a beer before she
answered the telephone. Unfortunately, through both their eyes, I relive that
moment in fear, hate, and love. It is a vision which haunts more of my life
than any other and one I cannot let go of. Even to this day, I hate both of them
for it.
As for my father, he secluded me
within our trailer where I had no visitors which is a good thing considering my
life at the time. I was kept inside a dog cage, fed scraps of
his left over food, and not bathed or changed for days. In fact, I was shown no
kindness or humanity at all and was beaten relentlessly until the age of three.
Had it not been for the memories of the nurses and doctors within me, I would
surely have turned into a monster bent on pain and hatred, but their strength
and compassion allowed me to endure. It was only after a loud drunken fit by my
father that Child Protective Services discovered me and took control of my
life.
