Florence Collymore - No Other Choice

Being a victim is a mix of all kinds of different feelings. You feel yourself miserable, scared, stupid, weak, and disgusting. All emotions are vague and you cannot distinguish even the vividest difference.

No matter what victim you are.

A victim of domestic abuse.

A victim of sexual assault.

A victim of physical dominance.

A victim of bullying.

A victim of child abuse/neglect.

A victim of hate crimes.

A victim of people/sex trafficking.

A victim of terrorism.

And I must forget to mention many other types of victims.

I’m sorry for all of you. Truly sorry. However, let’s not forget that we have one another. We are actually all the same. We need help. We need family around. We need to be loved. I know that most of us don’t have it, so why don’t we all be the most lovely family in the whole universe. We are all capable of giving true love. We all know how the other person may feel. We all know each other at some point. Let’s not wait when our past abusers change, let’s be loved right away.

If you know a person who experiences abuse in his/her life, do not stay aside and help. You know what it is to feel that pain. It’s crucible and unbearable. Those people deserve to be treated well.

I want you to know as well that we believe you. We believe each word of yours. We believe each action of yours. Don’t be afraid to tell us your story because we know that your story is the right one.

Please, I’m begging you, don’t be afraid to ask for help because only you are capable of breaking that vicious circle.

Amen.

I learned that in order to get love and appreciation you need to cook, clean the house, wash dishes, and not show emotions.

Passing out is the best way to escape.

Learn morse code and how to unlock locks without a key.

Go to the gym to be strong.

Upper body strength is the most important strength.

No one cares about your dignity.

Meditate, it's the least you can do for yourself.

Don’t judge people, you don’t know their story.

It’s OKAY to be alone.

You can come back from rock bottom.

Domestic violence can take many forms.

A shelter is more than just a place to stay.

Finding someone to talk to is vitally important.

You cannot change them.

Don’t talk about your feelings with them.

Have a plan. Always.

Try to get into college.

Don’t listen to them.

It’s not your fault.

You don’t have to be a good girl, but it would be helpful.

Good evening, guys. Or morning. Or afternoon. My name is Wrat Walker. Never have I ever heard a name uglier than mine. I have been living in Scranton, PA my whole life. My life always gave me miserable and challenging tasks. Beginning with family and ending with the job. Honestly, I didn’t handle them well. Destiny punched me in the face hundred and hundred times. And I just accepted it. I can’t say that I’m hard-working, conscientious, and so on. I was born in a family where the annual income was less than $4000. Imagine yourself. In a family where nobody cares about you. Neither mom nor dad. Thus, I feel like I can blame my parents for my ending-up place. Warning . You will either understand me and accept my actions or consider me insane and be happy for what I’ve got.

The first thing I want to say is that I’m writing this book for relief. I want to tell my stories to someone but I can’t. I’m so fed up with my family that I wanna kill each of them. And I will. I promise. When you finish reading this “book”, they’ll be all already dead. And I will be in jail because I committed those crimes and I must be punished. I’m a good citizen and respect the law. But also I didn’t wanna be a fraud like my family. I am not a coward. I am eager to possess all the virtues of a good man, so I am willing to begin with honesty.

Each chapter’s gonna be about each member of this messed-up family. Each chapter’s gonna end with the way I murdered them. I hope it’ll give you some food for thought. Maybe you will even come up with interesting ideas on how to murder annoying-you people. And last but not least, I know that there are even worse families than mine and that people suffer worse and so on. I know it. And I know that I’m not special nor unique. And I know that I’m not the main character as well as you. Let’s be honest. So just feel free to enjoy this life and kill those who bug you. But be careful with your choices and know that punishment will chase you if you do not come clean.

This is the worst part of my life. My dear mother. She drives me crazy. I can’t even describe it in words. Or maybe it’s just because I’m illiterate and never got a chance to learn English properly. This book I wrote with a dictionary by the way. So much hate I hold in myself for this human. It’s not a woman. It’s a literal snake that day by day eats your brain and soul, and nervous system.

Her name is Mia Walker. She is 56 years old, was born in my hometown, works as a cashier, is a heavy smoker, abuser, and for sure has a bunch of mental problems, including schizophrenia. She wasn’t diagnosed but if she had had the chance to live longer, she would have been diagnosed for sure. My mommy didn’t achieve anything. You clearly can see it because all her personal background fits in three sentences. She didn’t get into college for the first time, the second time, and the third time. Appreciation for trying. Her biggest accomplishment is being a clean freak. I know what I’m saying. She’s really proud of this title. She finds her worth in this and definitely wants everyone around her to be just like her. Irrational, right? She doesn't think this way. Mia seriously rates everyone by their cleanliness. And will judge you if you’re not like her. It’s actually really weird considering her lifestyle.

She’s a smoker. A heavy one. But listen, she is insecure about her age. I know that a lot of old people are concerned about this and they want to be young, and so on. But she smokes a lot. And when I said it, I meant it. Honey, how do you expect to look good when you smoke like a chimney? It's out of any basics of logic. But I’m not a bitterly resentful kid when a mommy didn’t give me candy. No more objective adjectives. I want to speak in a language of facts. So here we are. I wanna tell you the first situation that inflated my hate towards Mia Walker. Please, hear me out. Educate yourself on the topic of domestic abuse. Every 4th person is abused in some kind of way. It’s not just a story of my life. It’s a story of every 4th person on this planet.

I was 8 years old. It’s been 9 years since I hold this memory. I perfectly remember every single detail from that day. If you can relate to me, I’m sorry. Understand you. It sucks. But we have to handle these problems if we want to be successful, right? We don’t need mommy issues as well as daddy issues. But the problem is I’ve already got them. Nothing in my control anymore. I’ve got so many problems because of this person. And something tells me that it’s not okay to enjoy my life only if my parents are out of my sight. But let’s already start with a problem.

Have you ever been to any sport/hobby clubs? Parents love to send their kids there. But not mine. I always begged them to send me to Art School, Music School, and so on. We had money. Enough money to live well. We are middle class. Not impressive and obviously not the reason to show off. But, damn, they didn’t wanna spend a single penny on their own children. I, 7 years old, begged my mom to send me to basketball. It lasted over 8 months. And finally, they did it. I turned 8 and was so happy like I got a ticket to Disneyland. So a friend of mine and I went to our first training. Her mom escorted us. And, honestly, it was awesome. I still love basketball, and I guess I would still play if I wasn’t 5’2. Are you kidding, God? It’s like the minimum height. No space to get lower. So obviously I wasn’t that appreciated in those whole situations but I was a kid that didn’t care about anyone’s opinion.

We actually wanted to do basketball only because of the fact that we would be able to skip school due to competitions. Spoiler: I’ve never been to a single competition. But don’t worry. I was okay. It’s not the last reason to cut myself.

I don’t want to beat around the bush anymore. So read carefully, maybe you’ll think that it’s not a reason to kill your mom. If you think so, I will cut your throat. Literally. No one has the right to beat a child. You are a grown-up. You are several times bigger than me. You are several times older than me. Shame on you, freak. I’m sorry if you can’t find an equal rival and is willing to beat a kid who can’t even handle her own emotions due to age. But it did not bother you because you are a psycho, fake mother. Damn, I still beat around the bush but I’m trying to make you even more curious. Have no idea if I did because, again, I’m not a writer.

Winter

December 10

Wednesday

I even remember the day of the week. Impressive, isn’t it? I know. I remember every day when my mom beat me in a new way. Special days.

That day I was in my room with my sister, doing homework. The doorbell rings. I’m going to see who is there. Trying to look in a peephole. Mommy. Mommy with a right hand in gypsum. You will find out later how I remembered which hand. I open her door. See her crying and do not know what to do.

“Is everything okay?”, I asked.

“Don’t ya see?”, she answered as I was drunk and couldn’t notice her.

“Why did you freeze? Bring those bags in the kitchen.”

I take the bags. They are heavy. Sister comes to help me.

“What happened mommy?”

“Try to think logically. There is ice-crusted ground outside.”

I was so naive. I thought she just talked with me. But she just laughed and after that made jokes about me. Jokes about what? About my curiosity?

“You slipped on the ground,” I said and tried to hold back tears.

At that moment she hit me in the head. I was used to it. Nothing special. But this hit showed that she certainly slipped on the ground. I laughed after that. A grown-up woman slipped on the ground. Can’t you look at what you are stepping on? Thought my curious head.

Hitting wasn’t even the worst problem. The worst problem was that I had to take care of her because of her broken arm. Others refused to do it and I had no choice. I had to cook, clean, vacuum, dress her, wash her hair. I hated her and all this stuff. My school and homework did not bother her. How was I supposed to do all this stuff when I was 8 years old? I did not know how to ride a bike. What did you then expect me to cook? Ravioli? If I made a mistake, she would hit me. If I said something wrong, she hit me. She hit me every single day. I wish I had had a tumor because of this. I would have died and no more suffering. I was 8 when I had those thoughts in my head.

That day I had practice at 4:00 AM. I packed my backpack and waited for my friend to call me while my mom was doing something noisy with some man in another room. Did my mommy think that I was not hearing anything? Did she think that I was 2 years old and would not remember it? She was moaning and screaming so hard. It wasn’t my dad. She cheated on him all the time. And beat me each time after cheating so that I don’t tell my dad. It’s her way of coping with the immoral actions she performed. Some people go to psychologists but she chose this option. I was little and had no idea why she was beating me because of what she did.