The White Farmhouse

White Farmhouse

I close my eyes and I can remember an old white farmhouse with an enclosed front porch and one large room upstairs. We were once again moving into a new house and the prospect of starting at a new school and making new “friends,” frightened me. To say I was dreading it was an understatement. I can remember that house so clearly, the cavernous hole that consumed the back yard and how one of the rooms was filled top to bottom with garbage that had been left by the previous tenants. For some reason it was our responsibility to clean up the house prior to moving in, although I’m not all that surprised considering this isn’t our first time renting from this landlord. I guess it’s only fitting that a slum would continue to rent from a slumlord. Who knows what kind of arrangement he and my father must have had in place.

The house sat along a main route surrounded by corn fields and farms. I can remember the day we moved in, there was one disgusting shock after the other. When you walked into the kitchen, it was small with white rickety cabinets. Bits of rice and other bits of food were scattered inside and I could imagine the cockroaches fighting for each scrap as they scurried across the bottom. There was a doorway to the right leading into the living room and a door to the left that lead to the “basement.” The basement was a dark and dingy corridor lined with moist stone and a damp floor. The most interesting feature was the giant tree that had taken residence right smack dab in the middle. The basement was similar to that of a root cellar but, it carried and sense of eeriness that I wanted to avoid at all cost. The truth is, we took our laundry to the laundromat so there wasn’t really any need to go down there.

The living room was small, and “simplistic.” No pictures adorned the walls and the paint job was about as plain as it could get, unless of course you considered nicotine stains “art.” For some reason, I can’t really picture the layout of that room except for the kerosine heater that was planted right smack dab in the middle of the room. We frequently used the heater when the electric would suddenly get shut off (a common occurrence when your father spends his money on beer and cigarettes rather than paying the bills). The smell of kerosine permeated through the air, absorbing into anything and everything. I can remember feeling like I was waking around with a kerosine scented perfume on and to this day the smell of kerosine causes me to feel a sense of disturbance, like that smell is going to linger with me forever, burning a hole straight into my brain, making sure I never forget the events that occurred in that house.

Off of the living room was a master bedroom, my dad slept in that room for a short while. During one of his schizophrenic episodes he was certain there were people in the room with him. He feared that room and what the “people” were telling him. Eventually he would move upstairs but, being upstairs made it harder for him to perform his “nightly” abuse routine. When you went upstairs which was located across from the main bathroom, there was a large bedroom. This is where my sisters and I slept. Off of that room was a door that led directly into another room. This is where my dad would sleep for awhile. We all hated it, we hated him being so close to us, every night hearing his heavy step slowly inch up the stairs. He and his drunken stupor made it impossible for him to enter the room quietly.

Since it was challenging for him to abuse me around my siblings, he was forced to wait until he was sure they were asleep. Once he was certain they wouldn’t wake he would call out for me. I knew I couldn’t ignore his calls, so I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer and forced myself to go to him. One night I entered his room and sure enough the abuse began immediately and to no surprise he felt “guilty” afterwards. For some reason he was feeling particularly sorry for himself and he decided to attempt suicide. This was a regular occurrence and he was never successful. His preference was to call emergency services prior to taking the pills. You would think that would be enough for the “system” to remove his children from his custody but, apparently not. Anyways, he called 911 and proceeded to take some pills. He soon would regret choosing a room connected to mine, I took a long deep breath, this was it, he was drunk and weak and growing weaker as the medicine started to take over. I needed to seize the opportunity and end my suffering once and for all. I saw a pillow laying in the ground beside the bed. I immediately grabbed it and jumped on my father. I slammed the pillow as hard as I could, pressing it firmly against his face. Tears poured down my face as I asked God to take this man from this earth and forgive me for what I was doing. It was no use, although he was inebriated and seemingly weak, his strength was overpowering and I was unsuccessful. Much like my other attempts at freedom, I knew there would be severe consequences for my actions. I quickly retreated and climbed back into bed as if nothing happened. The medics would arrive and my dad would spend a few days on a psych hold at the hospital and I would have a few days of recuperation before I would receive my punishment.

When my father returned home, he moved himself into a small bedroom downstairs. The room was more like an office, barely large enough to fit a bed and a nightstand in there. The room was located just past the main bathroom at the end of the hallway. This would be his last bedroom before we were evicted and moving into the last home I resided in prior to moving in with my Aunt. For some reason, it’s that room I see in my nightmares, I see the hallway closing in on me as I head closer and closer to the door and begin to feel claustrophobic. The room feels hot and I can see my dad, a large man, naked, pulling me towards him. I cringe at the site. This is what keeps me awake most nights. I fear falling asleep, I fear the man in the tiny room. If I close my eyes I can hear the c-pap machine and the motor of the bed as he adjusts it to a lower position to accommodate the position necessary for him to be able to rape me. I can feel my eyes burning from the cigarette smoke that fills the air and desperate screams inside my head.

There are so many memories that are trapped in my mind from that house. Schizophrenic episodes, countless cold nights surrounding a kerosine heater and abuse running rampant. This house is where I learned that one of my brothers was also schizophrenic and another was just as perverted as my father. Although the abuse started just shortly after my mother’s death, that white farmhouse is where the true torture began and that will live with me forever.