The Golden Watch Of Hypnosis - Chapter 40
Have you ever wished to die?
I certainly have, I do wish to; everyday, every second
You know, it’s such a bother trying to live everyday with such burden on my shoulders. I feel tired; the entire world feels monotone, colorless to me.
The only person and thing in the world interesting enough to me is my own mind.
I like talking to myself, after all, I’m an autistic bastard right?
I absolutely hate myself.
Partially because of what’s happening right now.
I started at my face visible in the mirror of the shower, feminine and frail and my neck full of red bruises.
The bruises, right, they dissappear in a week or so, but I doubt it anyone cared enough to even notice them. No one in my class nor did my mother care, well, it was more like I’m invisible. Perhaps no one even remembers my name?
I saw it happen many times, classmates forget my name, teachers, benefactors everyone. I’m invisible to everyone.
My bruises prickled as I closed my eyes, some of them even had blood spilling out of them.
The one who caused my bruises? My father. The man currently pistioning behind me.
“Gh!”
“Uhg!”
His mustache touched my ears as my body shriveled in fear and pain.
Does no one care about me?
I am dying please help.
I was also confused, what is this? Why does this hurt so much? Why has he been doing this since a year ago?
Hot, steaming tears slid down my face as he finished doing whatever he wanted to do and sighed in relief; or was it pleasure?
My father breathed heavily and from what I could hear, took the shower head and aimed it at my back and my crotch; cleaning the white and sticky liquid stuck on my buttcheeks and my penis.
“*Cough*”
As I coughed in discomfort at the cold water on my crotch, I started to remember when this first happened.
The first time this happened was a year ago, he grabbed me from the behind when I was undressing and talked with me sweetly.
‘Let’s do something only daddies and sons do okay?’
‘Don’t tell anyone, otherwise they’ll hate you. ‘
‘This will be fun!’
He said back then as his hands started to roam around my body.
After that, all that happened was a blur, I didn’t remember anything but pain pain pain pain pain and pain.
My entire body ached, my penis’s foreskin was torn apart while my anus bleeded blood.
I couldn’t tell anyone you see, because he told me everyone would hate me even more than they do if I tell anyone so I hid; I hid in my wardrobe with a box of tissues and painkillers. When I was holed up in my room for five hours, only my elder sister came to check on me, yet she was also called back by my father.
No one except my little and elder sister and father were home, my mother went on a business trip for a whole two years.
My mother was a very weird existence for me, I never saw her as a motherly figure nor did any of my sisters, she however, didn’t care or didn’t notice that. I only saw the love in her eyes directed towards her husband, my father, never for us. She was someone who to my eyes, didn’t exist because she didn’t care about us; she did what a mother usually did such as cooking and cleaning and whatnot but however, she was never really there for us, well, I wasn’t really upset as I never really had a mother figure so I didn’t really know what a mother usually did.
Are all mothers like this or is my own mother an exception?
The only person I loved in this household was my elder sister, a very beautiful and charming existence, always tired to make us laugh and whatnot. But I doubted that love from me towards her will last, as she just like my mother, has reverence and love only towards my father.
I hate her now I guess.
All of this, I hate, everyone: my classmates, my parents, my sisters, everyone.
Humans are capable of giving such pain to their fellow children after all. After all, I never saw even animals treating their children with such a behavior.
I agree that I’m autistic. But isn’t everyone in a way, autistic related to certain matters? Doesn’t everyone have difficulties with certain matters?
My parents, took me to the mental hospital, the only thing they knew where to take people who had, I don’t know, difficulties?
I had the usual autistic behavior,
Not responding to my name by 12 months
Not pointing at objects to show interest at an airplane flying over by 14 months
Not playing “pretend” games, pretend to “feed” a doll by 18 months
Avoiding eye contact and want to be alone
Have trouble understanding other people’s feelings or talking about their own feelings
Have delayed speech and language skills
Repeat words or phrases over and over or the so called, echolochalia or something
Get upset by minor changes
Have obsessive interests
Flap my hands, rock my body, or spin in circles
Have unusual reactions to the way things sound, smell, taste, look, or feel
I wonder, was it my inherent disinterest in the world since my childhood the reason for my diagnosis as an autistic child or was I truly an autistic child?
My father made wet flapping sounds as he wiped himself clean and left the shower with a grunt, leaving me alone on the floor on a fetal position.
Does God exist? If he does then why do i need to suffer like this? Everyday, every hour, every minute I feel worthless and like a burden. I even hate myself for my uselessness.
I’m bullied yes, but why is my body soweak? So worthless and so small, even when compared with children three years younger than me?
I’m 11 years old now. Pretty much a normal age, a normal number yet a life I don’t know what to say about.
I wonder how my life would be like if me, my parents, my sisters were completely normal.
My head started to shake as I stood up and wemt outside, naked or not, I didn’t care.
I sat on the chair beside my desk and opened my notebook.
I was vapid, bland, weak, frail and whatever you could say about me.
The only solace and relief I find is venting my frustrations on my notebook by writing about my life.
For me, everyday is hell.
Luckily, I had come to terms with most of the abuse. The unfortunate side-effect is that I have to live with the wounds and any triggers associated to them.
Most of the time, I was always bullied by women.
I sighed as I picked up my pen and started to write.
Just the mere act of writing those horrid events out brings me right back to those times, front row and center. They are as fresh as they were years ago. I now realized how much damage I accumulated in mind and soul thanks to these cruel females. But support was hard to find.
There were no articles or stories on how girls and women could hurt and bully boys and men. Everything was centered on boys bullying boys, girls bullying girls, and boys bullying girls. Never any examination of what girls and women could accomplish in the cruelty department towards the opposite sex.
What hypocrisy. Because of that, even when I tried to share it to my teachers, they laughed it off.
I filled back the pages of the notebook and arrived at the first three pages, the things I wrote when I started to write a diary.
‘At age six, I was diagnosed autistic. In order to be official I had to undergo a series of tests for the mind, hearing and co-ordination at a local mental hospital. These came in the form of games tailored to measure and gauge “Normative” criteria. My mother and father would drop me off, leave me in the hands of various counsellors and support workers. Needless to say, it was not a good experience. They screamed at me, put me down for breaking rules, some even grabbing my arms and forcing “normal” motions out of them when I refused to participate in their chosen game or pick something up like a “Normal Boy”. One support worker once burst into the room during a hearing exercise I was doing wrong and became unhinged while I sat and quivered in the chair, shaking; a scared little six year old child. These counsellors and support workers were all women without an exception. ‘
`In Elementary School, on three occasions, I was attacked by a bamd of kids outside the rear exit doors. Some were my age, others older. They’d scream and shout into my ear, crowding me in an effort to disorientate my senses. I was lead around in a few directions until groups of hands reached forward and took hold of my pants. I tried to fight them off, but in vain as they yanked my pants down to the ankles then dispersed in gleeful amusement at their handiwork. Girls participated in the deed alongside the boys. I never told anyone about these incidents, not even my mom for it was drilled into them, and me, that my “behaviour” was a problem in need of correction. So who’d believe an autistic “Behaviour Challenged” little boy like me?’
‘There was a group of girls in elementary school whom took pleasure in teasing me just to get a major reaction. When they succeeded in reducing me to an emotional cripple, they’d sneer and snicker.’
‘When I was, a nine year old, the young women in high school called me “Weirdo” and “Retard”, mixing amongst the young men’s slurs directed my way in neighborhoods and school halls.’
‘One girl, as I was working on a story during spare time in computer class, picked up what had been printed from the printer and read it aloud in a mocking tone. She then ripped it out (properly, though) and wrapped the contents around my body, calling me “Retard” and inducing giggles from others around my station.’
‘A young man, with his “Clique” of girls and boys, started taunting me while waiting for the school bus to arrive outside after classes were done for the day. Another young woman stood up for me but turned around and criticised me for not using harsh language to repel them. When I told her about my aversion to it, she wouldn’t hear it and joined in the clique and their heckling before leaving me alone at last.’
‘-Signed Endou Riyama’