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"Rosebushes Growing in the Fallout" by The Diabolocal Mr. Lieman

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Lizard

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Those of you who came over from D'D surely know, or know of, The Diabolical Mr. Lieman. He and I used to butt heads all the time over there, and after I got banned, we started butting heads on FB chat. Some time in the midst of all that, we actually found ourselves talking to one another, and I shared with him some of the things that have happened in my life that I've shared here. When he said he wished he could write it, I gave him permission, and he subsequently gave me permission to post it here. What follows contains a few "bones" that reflect actual events, but it is fiction, so read it that way. It's bloody, brutal, and absolutely beautiful.


Preamble: This is a blog dedicated per request, to a friend of mine who has supported them since the beginning when I was accused of being insane and on the brink of suicide a year ago when I began these. This is not my story to tell, but it has been given to me to. I tread carefully, deliberately, and I hope I do it justice. I will do the best I can in short order, and in a blog. There is no justice to be done, but here's an honest effort:
[YouTube link to U2's "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking for"]



I am content. I am married, I am in love, and my love is strong, my husband is the benefactor of this love, and my pets. I am the kind of woman to cry years later after my pets have died, because I love them like my children. I am the kind of woman that lives through each day, surviving, because each day is a war, but only not really.

I am content.

I will tell myself this to get by.

I will not get caught up in arbitrary things like the temptations of sin, passionate wildfires of dark in men, like the one who I've been to the brink with many years ago, and often think about...a seduction, but also a sobering reminder of the things I have that are tangible, real - a normal man who loves me, and a life that gets me by. I'm alive, aren't I? I'm still here. I am walking down the hallway, and I stop by a door, and stare, and think of my mother. My husband sees me, smiles at me, tells me I'm pretty. How nice. He asks me if I need anything.

-

"Do you need anything, honey?" my father asks me. My father. The rock. He looked at me with adoring eyes, there in that hallway, and his eyes were completely full of love, and his hands bloody, and my mother was looking at me with contempt, a savage jealousy that not even the crimson mask she wore could hide, for her face glistening with blood. It was beaten, her nose streaked down her shirt, dripping onto the linoleum floor that crested the threshold into the kitchen. There they were, this spectacular dichotomy, that were my mother and father, my protectors, responsible for helping me weave my way through the world; and my father, while bashing my mother's face in, simply loved me, and let me tell you - in that moment, I loved my father wholly, fully, completely. Do you need anything. I need out. I am six years old. I am watching you, my dearest Daddy, pulp up the flesh on my mother's face, and I am watching the blood that flowed freely through her veins minutes ago, escape from ruptures in those passages, the life fluid that keeps her alive, spilling out from her face onto the kitchen floor, and it is bright red.

No, I tell my husband.

See...not long after my father had learned her up pretty good, she told me to come out to the garage with her, through a door much like the one I am standing before now. She said she was going to start the car, and she wanted me to sit with her for a while. To sit with Mommy, and we would go to sleep. I knew that sleep meant forever. My Mother did this every so often. Would hold us hostage with her threats of leaving this Godforsaken world. I walked with her to the car and got in, but as we sat for a while, and we held each other, I simply got scared and got out. She didn't ask me to stay, but she had opened the window to the house. I was young, but not stupid. The fumes were awful, and they made me dizzy. They were creeping into the house, ready to make us all go to sleep. I locked myself in my sister's room. I called my grandparents. They would come, I hoped, in time. Before it's too late.

Mommy came out before they got there. Walked out, blood cascading down her body, her eyes tired, glassy, and her body wobbled. She was crying....defeated. I can't do it, she said. I can't do it. And she fell. Collapsed entirely onto the floor. And that's how it was.

They were in love, I think; called it a passionate relationship. They both drank, and my father was violent, my mother a whore. I think about that time a lot...see, they would fight all the time. The sheer violence was unpredictable. I would be home, talking to my mom while she was by the stove, and Daddy would come home. He would say hi to me in such a loving way, and Mommy would smile, and he would slink up to her behind her, wrap his arms around her, and viciously squeeze. Her ribs would break, actually break, and he would drag her by her hair. The beatings were always brutal, and I watched them unfold, and would sometimes run, or would sometimes stand petrified by a doorway, where I could see, and my legs would shake, and I would sometimes pee, and I would sniffle and cry, and watch hoping my eyes would never have to capture him accidentally killing her.

He just up and left, one day. My mother took out a bottle of pills and was getting ready to pop them all, until he knocked them out of her hand so hard he nearly broke it. He just left.

I knew it had to be hard for him. While he had children from another marriage, it was me he loved. He never cared much about them. And I don't know why, but he always took to me. He was just...so kind. He loved me. And I him. My mother always resented me for it. But she got into another relationship soon after, and it would last five years until I was 11, when they were riding in a car, and it swerved across a grass feeder, and met an 18 wheeler head on. They were both mental, both wanted out, and I think that day, that's what they did. Held hands, and got out.

They had to cover him up, and when they put my mother in the coffin, she had baby blue on, and that will always stick out. I cried...not a lot, though. I wept tears of relief.

It was over. Finally, it was over. Goodbye.



Goodbye, Mommy.



I needed my Dad that day, but I had to ride in one of those special cars, I was the baby then, the youngest...and when all I wanted, NEEDED, was Dad, I was surrounded by my half sisters, and my Dad was busy crying anyway. He was worst for wear. Cried harder than I did, and it tore him apart more than it did me, and he was not better for any of this. And yet...he was the one constant. My father always has, and still does, and always will love me. And I, him.

So I look at my husband, who loves me too. Such a different man than my father he is, and that's a good thing, isn't it? I mean, right? Someone help me here. Isn't it? I mean, let's analyze:

Several months ago, I listen to a voice recording of the man who raped me when I was sixteen years old, a day after I had an abortion from a boyfriend at the time, and this man was my brother in law - and the day afterward, he climbed on me, and inside me, and he physically hurt me. Just as my mother was made to be, he made sure I was compliant. Fucked me, his dick sliding in and out of me, and I felt awful, because it felt wretched, but I tingled, and it felt...IT FELT AWFUL, IT DID NOT FEEL GOOD! HOW COULD IT FEEL GOOD! I AM BEING RAPED! Guilt....there is no guilt for what he did, it is not my fault, it is not my fault, but why didn't I do more, why didn't I - he is calling me now, YEARS later, and I am too old for this shit, but I am scared all over again. And this is not something my husband will take care of.

I handle my own business. He agrees, not without grumbling about it, but he agrees. This burden is mine to bear. My brother in law is calling me after all these years. Why. He should be so audacious, because had I ever told my Dad, he would be dead. My father simply would've killed him, and so I kept quiet, because I felt guilty enough for being raped, I didn't want the extra baggage of having him die, and my father go to prison over him. No...this was enough, thank you.

I would never answer that phone, and eventually, nothing came of it, other than harassing phone calls, that eventually ended when others got involved. But my husband was not able to go take care of things, I don't NEED some knight in shining armor to swoop in to my rescue, I handle. My. Own.

Dad calls me from time to time. To tell me he loves me.

Someone asked me if I forgave him. Are you fucking kidding me. Do I. Do I.

He loves me. I do him. I forgave him when I was six years old.

Do I need anything. God, what a loaded fucking question.

What do I need. Do you have time? Any of you? And if so, how much, because this could get complicated.

I need my Dad.

I need my husband.

I need to be loved once in a while, some hugs, some kisses, a good glass of fucking wine, coffee, I need a good orgasm once in a while, I need a great laugh, a good cry, I need some really good food on Friday nights, I need a BREAK, I need a good damn read, I need my friends to understand, I need space, I need room to breath, I need to be suffocated with love and a fierce love, I need my brother in law to be dead, I need Mom back, I need to tell her I'm sorry, and sorry for WHAT!, but I need to tell her that, and I need for her to tell me, and I need to tell her I love her, to get out of that car, to be normal, to love me, I need her to still be here, and I need to go over the edge with the darkness once in a while, and I need that lover from years back, only no, go away, because...because...I need-

I walk over to my husband, I smile at him, and he puts his hand on my back as I walk by, and I walk over to the living room, and I stare at a picture of my father, and he has his hand on mine, and I'm so small, and I love him so much.

I need to call him and tell him that. Those three big, big words.

I love you.

I need to tell my husband that, too. For being there. Just for being there.

And for asking me if I needed anything.

Maybe next time I won't lie, and he'll wish he didn't ask. Until then.....I need a lot of things. ALL of those things mentioned, in no particular order. But first...I think I'm going to get up, and start with that hug.

I am content. I am happy. I am.

http://www.areop.com

Angel


Getting the Hang of This Place for Sure
Getting the Hang of This Place for Sure
Wow!!! Outstanding....

I think all of us...from DD...from other crime sites....from abusive pasts - are, maybe not soul mates, but mated souls. I am so glad that I met you, Lizard, and thrilled to call you friend.

Lizard

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Angel wrote:Wow!!! Outstanding....

I think all of us...from DD...from other crime sites....from abusive pasts - are, maybe not soul mates, but mated souls. I am so glad that I met you, Lizard, and thrilled to call you friend.

I certainly don't disagree with you, Angel. I think many of us ARE mated souls. And I don't want to diminish the meaningfulness of that, but I also don't want to diminish what Lieman did in this piece. He took a few events from my life, and he turned them into a kind of poetry. Lieman, a man, a man who writes about violence and death, took these few events and wrote a beautiful tale about a women who has seen some shit and tries to keep on keeping on. I mean, damn. I commented at D'D, and what I said is: "I want to be her." And I do.

http://www.areop.com

Lizard

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Thank you, Angel, you persuaded me to read it again. And I realized there are some events that are true but the details are off, and they vex me. Let me show you:

My mother took out a bottle of pills and was getting ready to pop them all, until he knocked them out of her hand so hard he nearly broke it.

That isn't it. She had a small beaded coin purse, and in that purse was some pills. I don't know what they were or where she got them, but I remember them as being tiny and white. She was sitting in a kitchen chair, and she upended the coin purse, dumping all of them into her cupped palm. She raised them to her face, but just before she could tip them into her open mouth, he slapped the motherfucking SHIT out of her. The pills went everywhere. And it was after that that he left.

Now, how much do I owe you for this therapy session?

http://www.areop.com

Angel


Getting the Hang of This Place for Sure
Getting the Hang of This Place for Sure
Lizard wrote:
Now, how much do I owe you for this therapy session?

Just call me again sometime, and we'll call it even. Your listening to me rant about my father the other day was my therapy session - so maybe we could just shrink each other's heads from time-to-time.

Angel


Getting the Hang of This Place for Sure
Getting the Hang of This Place for Sure
Lizard wrote: And I don't want to diminish the meaningfulness of that, but I also don't want to diminish what Lieman did in this piece. He took a few events from my life, and he turned them into a kind of poetry. Lieman, a man, a man who writes about violence and death, took these few events and wrote a beautiful tale about a women who has seen some shit and tries to keep on keeping on. I mean, damn. I commented at D'D, and what I said is: "I want to be her." And I do.

He DID do an excellent job. It would be interesting to see what he would make of my life.

Reading that piece was almost like looking into a mirror for me. There are a few things that I didn't previously know about you that could have been pulled directly from my (younger) life. It was eerie...yet thrilling at the same time.

dannie

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Getting the Hang of This Place for Sure
Getting the Hang of This Place for Sure
I have always liked to read leimans writings! and this is another excellent one.

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