There are some who have only good memories of childhood, there are some who have both good and bad and then there are those who have only bad memories.
I'm one of those unfortunate ones who have only bad memories. The earliest memory I have is being forced to bend over a table, with my hands stretched on it, my shorts pulled down to my ankles and feeling the full force of Dad's belt on my bottom only covered by underwear.
The screams, the pleadings, the pain, the red marks and the utter shame are still vivid in my head today.
The reason for this punishment? I had spilled milk on the kitchen floor.
Some might wonder where my mom was. Why didn't she help me? She would have, but her fate was worse than mine. She was not only going through physical and mental abuse, but was also struggling with the fact of how unfortunate she was to have met her husband, Sean, my father.
My dad had gone to Russia for a week with his friends during his college days and had apparently loved the girls there so much that he learned Russian and decided to find a bride from there.
However, it all remained a dream until his second marriage broke down, and he was facing a lonely life in a two-bedroom house near a small town in North Dakota.
He then decided to make his long-held dream come true and scraping whatever money he could, off he went to Moscow to find a bride. Armed with an American passport, six feet and two inches body, long wavy hair and knowledge of Russian language, he prowled the bars, clubs and pubs all over Moscow until he finally found a girl he instantly liked.
She was walking to school when he first saw her from his apartment and for the next four days he watched her every morning and evening walk down the street.
The first time Dad spoke to her, he asked her for directions to a shop he already knew and engaged her in small talk about the city and its culture. Slowly and deliberately, he made sure she became fixated on his masculine body and American charm.
After about twenty days, he told her that he was going back to the U.S., but could arrange for her to join him there if she wanted. My father, of course, sold her the whole deal: Big cars, huge house, shopping malls, etc. She was enthralled and jumped at the prospect of an American life.
When he saw that she was ready, he went back to the U.S., arranged a tourist visa and tickets and told her to catch the next flight. The reality she experienced on arrival was different to the dreams he had woven in her head.
Dad was living in an old house, way off the main road, and there were no big cars, just a Ford truck, and no glitzy shopping malls. It all hit her hard and she wanted to go back, but he charmed her into staying – a mistake she came to regret.
She was under the impression that he would marry her as soon as she arrived, but Father told her, deceitfully as it turned out, that since she was only eighteen she can't get married as the minimum age required was twenty one. Then she thought he would help her get the visa extended, but he kept on giving excuses.
She thought about running away several times, but since she didn't know anybody, spoke little English and had heard all sorts of stories from Dad about how illegals were treated in prisons, she couldn't bring herself to take the final step.
All in all, she was at his mercy and he knew it. Within a year, she was carrying me and living more like a slave than a wife.
That's how the journey and the misfortune of my mom, Natasha, began.
Surprisingly, the earliest memory I have of my mother is not of the beatings, the screaming and the abuse, but of her sitting on a chair with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap in the backyard.
I remember her red hair falling over her shoulders, her deep blue eyes looking at me and her nose ring and gold anklets shining in the sun.
"Do you miss Russia?" I asked her sitting opposite her.
"Yes, a lot," she said adjusting her gray, knee-length pleated skirt.
"Any relatives still there?"
"There are your two aunts and an uncle."
"You must have enjoyed there?"
"A lot. We used to cycle across the town, play volleyball and dance to Russian music. School was fun, too."
"Were you good in studies?"
"No, just average. I was a good swimmer though. There's a lake near our house and all of us used to swim in it."
"I guess they miss you, too?"
"Yes, they do. Will take you there some day. Now let's go inside and cook lunch for your dad," she said taking a deep breath and tucking in her white sleeveless shirt.
But that's the only memory I have of childhood where she's smiling and is happy. All the others are of shame and pain.
My father had a more or less set schedule. He would go to work at the garage by eight in the morning, come home for lunch and then be back again at home by evening.
Most of his Saturday nights were spent playing poker at home with his two friends Jason and Matt.
Since our house was so far away from everything, Mother and I remained stuck day and night inside the house. Dad would take us to town maybe once in three months and even then not to the town that was near our house, but to a town that was far away from our place.
My father wasn't even keen to send me to school and only reluctantly changed his mind, but took me out after just few years, so all I learnt was read and write.
Even there it was Dad who used to drop and pick me up from school, with Mom staying stuck inside the house.
I don't remember anything about school, friends or playing any game or sport.
What I do remember is how my father used to beat me with his belt, steel rod or shoes for smallest of mistakes. What's more shameful is that he continued to beat me even when I was sixteen years old.
I was tall with broad-shoulders, although not a giant like him, but the fact that I was nearly grown-up or that Mother could see me standing there with my jeans and underwear pulled down to my ankles with my cock and balls clearly visible didn't bother him.
To some all this might seem barbaric, but it was nothing compared to what Mom had to endure.
One day we were having dinner when Dad thought the steak was burnt a little bit too much, so he started shouting at Mother that she didn't know how to cook and that she was useless. Then he got up, dragged her by her hair and forced her to bend over the sofa without caring that I was sitting there.
He lifted Mom's skirt up and began working on her bums with his belt.
She tried to push her skirt down, but that made him angrier and he started beating her with the belt on her arms, making her scream in agony. Soon Mother's arms and white panties had belt marks all over them.
One evening Mom and I were washing his truck in the backyard and didn't hear him call her, so he dragged us inside the house and told her to take off her jeans, but she pleaded with him to have mercy on her. He told her that if she didn't take them off, he would start the beating again, so she began removing them, crying all the time.
My mother's jeans were off. Then he wanted her to take off her black panties and then her brown shirt and black bra and was only satisfied once she was completely naked.
Mom, who was five feet and five inches tall and had a full-figured body, sat there, with her back against the wall, her long legs joined together and her knees and arms trying to cover her big breasts, while he kept calling her a bitch and a whore.
After staying on the floor for more than five minutes, my mother got up to make dinner.
Since Dad was busy drinking in the living room, I sneaked into my room, snatched a bed sheet and was creeping to the kitchen to give it to her to cover herself up when he warned me that he would beat the hell out of me if I tried to help her, so threw the sheet back into my room and went to calm Mom down.
She prepared the dinner, tried to make it as delicious as possible because she didn't want him to get angry again and went into my room to eat it. I took my plate and followed her into my room, leaving my father eating alone at the table.
There I saw her, sitting on a pillow, still naked.
"Could you do me a favor?" she said looking up from her plate.
"Go to my room and bring the white cream kept inside the drawer."
I came out of the room, saw Dad was busy with TV and whiskey, and gave it to her.
"Would you please put it on, it's hurting a lot," she pleaded handing me the cream and lying back on her stomach on the bed.
I dipped my fingers inside the jar, scooped the cream out and started applying it on Mom's ample bums and inner thighs as she lay there with her legs spread. I rubbed it all over the red marks made by Dad's beatings and then lightly massaged her bums, inner thighs and the bottom part of her back with my fingers.
"Why don't we run away from here?" I asked her.
"We will, very soon," she promised burying her face into the pillow.
"Have you always worn this blue necklace?" I asked her just to cheer her up.
She lifted her face from the pillow and turned her head toward me, exposing the side of her right breast in the process.
"It was given by my grandmother when I was a child," she replied holding the necklace in her fingers.
"Is she alive?"
"No. She was very beautiful and graceful."
"Yea, right. Like me," she said rolling her eyes and looking down at her bruised bums.
"You're beautiful," I comforted her by going near her and kissing her neck and bare shoulder.
.... There is more of this story ...