Dear Mother E-Book

Nick Finkler

• Herausgeber: neobooks
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Deutsch

Seitenzahl: 61

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

DEAR MOTHER is the true story of Felix. Born into a world of abusive expectations, he soon became a victim of hate and violence, but it was the person he trusted the most who destroyed him the worst ... Part of the sale price is donated to children in need. This short story isn't based on fiction, but on sadly true events. Felix was and is real, as all the abused and mistreated children are, whose stories also found their way into this book - a letter Felix began to write to a woman he later only called 'his producer' ... In this short story you find the fates of more than 24 victims and their friends and families. The author worked together with them and tells not only 24 different fates combined as one, but even more since out there live so many victims who are unseen yet.

Leseprobe

Nick Finkler

Dear Mother

A true story about child abuse

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Titel

Note

Dear Mother ...

It all started with Philicia

Mr Simon was a bad teacher

My free will

Web opened doors for me

I called you a monster

It's been ten years now

Rose contacted me

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Note

To whom it may concern:

The following letter is based on true events. The names are changed for reasons of privacy, not to protect any criminal subjects involved.

I spoke to victims and their families and friends, I looked deeper and wrote my heart into this short book. Our children are paying a price they never should pay.

I ask you to always be cautious and to watch for signs of abuse. It's a small path between loving family members on one side and too much touching on the other side. Always know to tell the difference. A loving father shouldn't be accused for something he didn't do, it destroys families. But as long as you listen to your heart and your intuition, you might be able to see bad things happen in small details.

If you're unsure whether you spot an abusive act or not, contact someone or call a support center for victims of abuse. Be sure to always have a couple of such contact numbers in your phone. In case of emergency, call the police immediately.

Children can be heavily traumatized because of the abusive acts they are part of. Let's save as much of them as possible. Don't look away.

The next one could be your own.

Nick FinklerAugust 2018

Dear Mother ...

This is the letter I will never send to you.

You have always treated me well. Your love and care were second to none. The power of your warmth was so strong that I always knew where to go whenever I felt lost in this cold and cruel world.

What I sought in you, I found within a blink, within the touch of a hand. The rain rattling against the window of my room remained a riddle to me, whereas you could let me read in you like in an open book.

Well, at least that is the truth you will take with you at the end of days. The truth that excludes me as your son. I have never been born, according to this truth. Your truth. You gave birth to a boy who was supposed to spread your embittered thoughts. A boy who became a mere bastard instead, due to failing research on your part, as you found out that he did not carry the blood you wished to revive. The rain of life blurred the blood of your dreams and made it all mortal. Yet you didn't give up. You tried to educate this boy to be your worthy seed. But whatever left you one day, that wasn't your son any longer.

I remember the frying pan hitting my head when I wasn't even ten. But although many things could have damaged my head, I can see silhouettes, as if they were still part of my life.

These silhouettes still bring tears to my eyes. Barber scissors on young male genitals. Fire in the kitchen. A child's head between door and door frame. Fists. Feet. Smoke and laughter born in alcohol. Even more smoke, day after day, floating through every room of every flat we lived in. Strange faces of strange men. Men who spoke to me and touched me as if I were their son. Men who spoke to me and touched me as if they knew me. Numerous, big relocation trucks, again and again.

That cold cruel world you sent me into was a blessing. I learned to appreciate the natural coldness of the snow under my bare battered feet. The biting wind in my face stroked me gentle, far more than your yellow fingers, which almost became cigarettes themselves. You never realized that you should have killed me right after you found out about me being a bastard. But you let me live. You sent me out into a world which could give me so much more. Anyway, it was a long journey until I would find a way to escape you.

In kindergarten I already had an archenemy. I do not know why, but I remember him. Besides that, I painted creative pictures with my fingers. But while others, including my enemy, made pictures of their parents, I knew better things to paint. Parents, what does that mean, I often asked myself back then. Your answers were reflected in multiple explanations. My dad died, you once said. My dad was away, you told me another time. My dad was a stupid asshole, my dad was wanted and the whole nation was after him. My dad was this, my dad was that. And although he was absent, he was present in every single of your pejorative looks, with which you scrutinized me. The fathers I knew were weird strangers who went in and out of our home as if it was a supermarket. At first, there was a lot of noise out of your bedroom, but with the years it subsided. As long as one of these fathers came, they gave me toys, left money for food and were getting you to dinner or something else. You gave away the money for more cigarettes and some of those nasty dresses, which, after an evening or a night, turned to rotten moth nests. But obviously you never cared.

In elementary school I got my second archenemy. We both had the same best friend and were as jealous as one can be at that age. I also read a lot during the breaks. You know best that I taught myself to read since I was four, and you did nothing to stop or support me. Why bother, right? Well, that's where I got more cleverness than you, I guess. Books can be a shelter to children and even teach us to learn about what happened to them. While at school, I was far from the moment to realize what was going on with you and me.

During class I was the typical, chubby boy, naively stumbling around the world and let everyone take advantage of me. During breaks, I was the most withdrawn bookworm, only off for group games like dodgeball, but not often. For Lain, my best friend, I was probably hard to bear, but also a polite classmate who she liked very much. That is the only way I can explain why she supported me, when one day I became life-threatening for everyone in my class.

It was again one of those days at elementary school, when the main part of my classmates teased and annoyed me during class and breaks. Inwardly it made me frenzied that they were so young but so clever to do their malice without even a single teacher taking notice about it. Whenever I tried to defend myself, it was loud and harsh, so it was me who got the blame.

That day I exploded. Even back then, as a young boy, I was taller than the others, but also shy. The teasing went so far that suddenly I got up, overturned my table and grabbed my chair. At this moment some of my bullies were already escaping, cowardly shouting for the teacher, who promptly turned around and identified me clearly as the troublemaker, no matter what had been the real cause.