Resilence

Cat.. the protagonist is a tortured soul. And survivor of child abuse

http://bookre.org/reader?file=293873

There was nothing left to hold onto as the pain drove me under, drowning me in fear, drowning me in memory… I was back on the streets again, seven or eight years old with an empty hole in my brain where my past should have been, hungry and cold. And a man who sometimes gave me handouts said, Come on in. 
I thought I knew the streets, knew the rules, knew what I was doing. I’d never heard bad talk about him. But up in his room he’d dropped his pants and told me what he wanted me to do to him. I said I didn’t want to, and his face went from smiling and soft to ugly with rage faster than I could think. He pulled a knife, and with it pressed against my throat, he said, Do it or I’ll kill you. And I did it, whimpering and sick, but thinking if I did it I could go. I’d never heard he’d killed anybody, if I did it he’d let me go…
But he wouldn’t let me go. I begged him, I tried to fight, but he cut me and ripped off my clothes. He pinned me down on the bed and started doing things to me. I told myself it was only some babyfucker getting his fix, it didn’t mean anything as long as I was still alive when it was over. 
And the things got worse and worse, hurting me until I cried out; and when I did he started to beat me, shouting it was all my fault, like I’d made him do this—until I was hurt and bleeding everywhere, but still it was only pain and it couldn’t go on forever. 
And then he rolled me onto my stomach and climbed on top of me. Naked and helpless under his weight, I screamed as a kind of pain I’d never known existed tore something apart in my insides. “Oh God, stop—!” I screamed and screamed for somebody to save me but there was nobody at all who heard my screams and cared.
And it wasn’t stopping. My screams turned hoarse, my sobs became heaves of vomit; it went on and on, until all that was left was the truth … blind with pain, with the black pit opening up to swallow me, I knew at last that the river of wetness that rushed through me was all my blood, that I was never going to get out of this room, that oh God I was dying right here, it was over, over, right now going down, down, into the blackness…

The problem with abused children, is that they become abused adults.
And when dementia sets in,.. they forget they grew up.
And sometimes, because of how memory loss occurs... they get trapped in their nightmare childhoods.

I had to deal with this in my own family.
And to this day, there is still a lack of acknowledgement among some, that the stories are true.

"Beaten so badly she couldn't walk for three days, and they were ashamed to take her to the doctor"

And the anxiety that remained,... the insomnia,.. the feeling that even in her own home, she was not safe.

The fear of strangers, as her world collapsed, and she was unable to form new memories..... (crying)