by Tracy Thomas

Created on: May 16, 2008

Home

The house on Adenmoor Avenue still sits boarded shut. The home of my childhood, just one of many dwellings vacated due to plans for freeway expansion. Tied up for years in an endless battle of bureaucracy, the house appears defiant, indestructible, a haunting monument for the terror that existed within its walls.

When the house falls prey to its eventual doom, it will not die. A vivid picture of its structure, contents and history are etched deep within my mind. I will carry that house with me for the remainder of my life. Time has not proven to be the inevitable remedy so highly acclaimed by all. It still haunts me.

To paint a picture of a dwelling filled with love and warmth would be a lie. The truth is ugly, but it's my truth. It's my history and an integral part of my internal self. From within the walls of this house I learned to view the world. It was supposed to be the sanctuary of molded thought and emotion, but instead became the very foundation of all skewed lessons in life. The very same house that should have encouraged my growth and freedom became instead, my prison.

The family that dwelled here was the epitome of 60's suburbia; an all-American Studebaker driving, God-fearing family. There were two children, one of each gender. There was a puppy and a white picket fence, bread winner man, subservient woman, angelic children. It was a picture painted in pastel colored hues.

My father was a tall, handsome man who bore the physique and scars from a life of labor. Quick in wit and bathed in charm, his smile could win over the hardest of hearts. The dark truth hid well behind this outward faade and few would ever recognize the monster that crouched just below the surface. It was this monster that we came to know all too well, the one with the dark void in his eyes, threatening words and hurtful intentions.

It is the right of every child in this world to be just that a child; innocent, nave, in need of guidance and protection. To be exposed to the truths of the world in small controlled doses. To be made aware of the ugliness that exists within it, only after they have been filled full with its beauty. It is the responsibility of parents to nurture the child and offer them a sanctuary of protection. In my childhood, that sanctuary of protection served to incubate evil. Within its walls I was raped of my innocence, had my spirit broken, and my childhood stolen. All without a single ounce of remorse from the man I called my father. My memories are not of

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