Never a Hero to Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

Gary’s voice cut into my thoughts. ‘I’m starving – what are we having for dinner?’
    ‘Tracy – you know how to use the grill?’ Dad asked.
    I shook my head quickly and looked at the floor, wishing it would swallow me up. ‘No. No, I don’t. Please don’t make me do that, Dad. I can’t.’
    ‘Shut up. You’ll do exactly what I tell you to do. You’re the woman of the house now and you’ll do everything, everything , that needs to be done. Understand?’
    ‘But I’m not meant to touch the grill, Dad,’ I whimpered. ‘Mum says it’s too dangerous.’
    ‘Bloody useless! Doesn’t your mother teach you anything? You’re a lazy little bitch – now get in that fucking kitchen. I’ll show you once, and you’ll learn, because I won’t fucking show you twice.’ He punched me in the back to get me moving and pushed me towards the kitchen, where we soon ended up with some half-burned sausages. I got a few slaps along the way, but I was just grateful I didn’t have to put my body in front of his while he cooked.
    There was something about the scenario which made me really uncomfortable. Now, I know it was the words he used rather than the actions or the casual violence which was now punctuating all of his time with me. Swear words were littering everything he said, whereas previously he would never have cursed in front of me. He was calling me a ‘little bitch’ with increasing frequency. But, more than anything, it was his constant reiteration that I was the ‘woman of the house’ which made my skin prickle with fear.
    I went back to the kitchen with the empty plates, trying to carry all three of them at one time. I hadn’t had to be told that it was my ‘job’ or that I would get no help. I dragged a little stool over to the sink, climbed up and ran hot, soapy water into the basin just as I had seen Mum do on countless occasions. There had been a few times when she had let me climb up there and wash a few bits for fun, when she was in a good mood and feeling well, but it seemed very different now. I had cried a lot over the past couple of days and, although I felt upset, there were no tears now. I knew I had to get on with things, and that’s a terrible realisation for a small child. I don’t think I had an acceptance of the abuse at that stage, because I didn’t quite know what was going on or even what had happened, but I did know there had been a change and that cooking, cleaning and being hit was now the norm for me.
    I stood there, my arms up to the elbows in sudsy water, and sent out a little prayer for Mum. We had never been a fairy-tale family, and I had never been showered with affection, but the way we had been previously was a picnic compared to the hell I was now living in.
    I think people are almost immune to abuse in some ways. Although we talk about it far more now than in my childhood (and that can only be a good thing), it is sometimes too easy to think it is all in the past, or it must have been OK because the victim is still standing. It always needs to be put into context. I was five years old. I had seen my mother taken to hospital under terrifying circumstances. My dad was lying to people, telling me to stay indoors and not answer the door to anyone, even good people like Agnes. He had pushed me, slapped me, punched me. He had shoved his body into mine, rubbed against me and made those strange noises while he did it. And all of these bad things were the things I had to accept if I was to be a good girl.
    The dishes were finished, so I gingerly crept along the hall. I wanted to go to my own bed in my own room; hopefully sleep would come quickly and tomorrow might be better. I had only gone a few steps when I heard him shout, ‘Tracy! Where do you think you’re going? Get your lazy arse back in here.’
    I did as I was told. I’m not sure if I would have been left alone in my room anyway given that it was next door to his (something he would always make sure was the case