Survivor Voices: Harmony's Story
/This story is shared as part of our “Survivor Voices” project.
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Trigger warnings: sibling abuse; parents colluding with abusive sibling; scapegoating.
That maniacal laughter of his was almost drowned out by the ax in my hand. With hot tears beading in the corners of my growing tired eyes, and my chest beating through the walls of my throat, I knew what I had to do. What’s that saying - an eye for an eye? Well, in my case, a tree for a tree and all it means to momma and me.
So, there I was cutting down the tree my momma and I planted when I was only seven-years-old. My immediate blood-family was watching from the front-porch; I didn’t care. I’ve never been so sad in my life and trust me, I’m good friends with Woe, but each time I found myself in some sort of pain in that house, I had an audience even if I didn’t want it.
My brother took an extraordinary amount of joy in this debacle I found myself in. He was shouting and holding up his gifted I-Phone, “I’m going to put you on World-Star! This is going on World-Star! Everybody will see you!” What World-Star viewers wouldn’t see is the whole truth.
I felt the wooden splinters of the ax bury themselves deep into my palms with each swing. It didn’t matter; the damage was done. The splinters were the least of my worries.
The truth? I grew up in an enmeshed and violent household. I was the scapegoat in a nuclear family of the untraditional four. My blood-brother killed cats and beat all of us. My parents? They closed the blinds long before I came along. I have found that it is no use talking to them. It’s like talking to a couple of tree-stumps; so, I don’t anymore.
I was young and about to get beat. I don’t remember by whom, but I do remember that sense of fear, reminding me harshly of my impending doom. I ran. I ran into the one room in our house that had a lock, albeit an old rusted chain-lock; it still worked. I ran inside that bathroom and locked the door. Nobody could get me, although they tried. Their attempts were no match for that chain-lock. My momma’s fingers reached cryptically through the gap in between the door and the frame, trying to unlock the chained-door.
I don’t know how long I was in there; all I know is my family was waiting for me on the other side. After some time, I opened the door to get it over with. What came next wasn’t a beating; it was much worse than that. My momma pushed past me and took a loud power-drill to the door’s chain. In a matter of seconds, she had unscrewed the chain-lock from the bathroom door.
“Now, you won’t be running in there no more!” she said matter-of-factly while my brother mocked and laughed from the borders of his bedroom. In all my years of living in that house, that lock never returned to its place. The lack of privacy only ever seemed to bother me, so nothing was done about it. My blood family-members walked into the bathroom whenever they pleased. As I grew older, I grew increasingly angry each time someone came in without knocking. After I was about sixteen or seventeen, my family-members started knocking before I came in.
Anyways, my momma was right when she said I wouldn’t be running in there anymore. My new search for solace away from the chaos and violence in that house led me to the backyard; specifically, an oak tree with perfect branches, cozy enough to spend hours in. So, I did often. I loved that tree and in some ways, I think all those branches and roots healed me. Anytime my heart or body hurt in that house, I ran to that tree like my mother, for years.
Until one day, I looked out the kitchen window and saw both my parents taking a chainsaw to the branches. I ran as fast as I could in an attempt to try and stop them, but I was too late. I looked at my sitting branch laying wrongfully on the ground. They cut down my solace. I cried, “Why?” All they responded with was, “Your brother is allergic to this tree.” I would have been more inclined to believe that if they cut down the whole tree, but they only took a chainsaw to my sitting-branch.
I felt the toxic fires of Chernobyl burn and radiate in the spot where my heart was and screamed. An eye for an eye, I thought. So, I stormed into my parents dilapidated shed, and tore an ax from the wall of tools. With it, I bolted to the front yard where my momma and I planted a little sapling all those years prior. I began to swing, swing, swing. I only damaged it. Unlike the tree I grew up in, this one stood tall and whole for years to come.
That is, until 2019 an unknown disease poisoned its leaves, branches, and roots, killing it. Whatever that vengeful disease was, it started off slowly, as a single vein of fatality. Soon enough, the bright colors and blooms that the tree once proudly held, turned to deep, unsightly rot.
In its place, nothing is left.
- Harmony Filson