FORCED AND LOCKED Great for one, tragic for another: Winston Hills journal

7 1 0
                                    


Chapter one Winston

There is nothing really cool or interesting about me. I'm not determined nor adventurous. I've always hated my name. Winston. Just sounds ugly. Does Not roll off the tongue and it's old. Enough about me though. No one wants to hear about an average person like me. There is my dad though.... Dad never liked me. He never has and he certainly never will. I am just a nuisance to him and I knew early on. Right from the second that I was born, I was a huge burden to my messed up Father. My dad was a rather serious guy. His eyes were such a cold, icy blue colour that sometimes he even looked blind. At times, I just wished that it would turn into a warm, homely colour that I could feel safe with.

His behaviour was absolutely disgusting. Always breaking the law in the most secretive ways. He couldn't even go to prison. Our family owned the damn police, F.B.I and any other service that could get you into prison. We got money, we got a lot of it actually. I'd rather be poor because every single cent that we've ever had was always fraud. It made me sick. He made me sick. He stole all the money.

When I was four, my dad drove me and my sister Gretta to an unsafe, rocky beach. He always brought both of us to the most extreme places. My sister and I hated his weird preferences. I only very vaguely remember but on the way, we were in a small white car and Gretta was loosely holding what looked to be the original looking Ken and Barbie. One of the dolls in each hand. She was dancing in her seat and singing. "Ken and Barbie! Kissy kissy BOO KEN AND BARBIE KISS KISS KISSYYYYYY!" After that she giggled like the classic little girl with cheer and glee in her small brown eyes.

I remember rolling my eyes and telling her to stop. Just when I said "STOP!" Dad smashed the horn button So aggressively that the honks came out at a louder than intended volume. The honks were not controlled as they were all at different pitches. While dad was honking the horn, Gretta covered her ears and screamed. She screamed as if someone got murdered and she had to watch it. Innocent tears formed into her eyes and dripped down her chubby cheeks. Dad did this same action again and again until he stopped to shout. I'M TRYING TO LISTEN TO THE NEWS! He bellowed so loud that I was scared for what he was going to do next. "But-" Gretta said while mildly shaking but dad had this habit of cutting people off. "Oh honey... Did I scare you? I wasn't meant to scare you, I was meant to scare Winston." "But that's not fair!" I complained while kicking his seat. She was louder. And it was me who was getting all the blame. He pretended not to notice that I said that. I got the message so my four year old self decided to shut my mouth for the rest of the drive. As if my opinions even mattered to him anyway. I didn't know why he hated me so much anyway. We arrived at the weird place that dad was so passionate about twenty minutes later. When we made it to the grainy sand of the beach, something caught my eye. There was a yellow diamond sign that read,

Caution. It is MANDATORY to Wear heavy footwear when walking on rocks. Rocks are sharp and there have been severe injuries. Being like any other four year old I was, I couldn't read the sign so I dashed straight onto the sharp glassy-like pebbles. I didn't know that I needed to wear heavy footwear. I wish someone caught me before that but dad and Gretta were distracted. They were strapping on their special footwear. Next thing I knew was that the souls of my small feet were splitting open and tearing through my veins and nerves, paralysing and shocking me.

The pain was the worst thing that i've ever felt at the time. It felt just like searing needles, pins and knives stabbing through my small body. As I came to the sense that it was only going to stab deeper inside my foot even, creeping out the other side, with my pea sized brain, I remember stiffly toppling onto the pebbles on my middle section.

You'll also like

          

Well of course it was a way worse idea than just standing there and enduring the agonising pain in my feet. The rocks proceeded to cut and burn into my stomach, lungs, organs and heart. It at least felt like it. All of my organs were screaming for help but no one came to save them.

"Winston is dying. He is dying! Help him!" I heard my sister yell. I screamed and cried as the waves crashing against me turned into a deep red velvety colour. It was not the colour of the sea but it was blood. Thick, red blood. And the worst part is, my dad just stood there and did nothing. The horrible man almost looked... relieved. He was just watching me die, getting more and more amused by the second. He could've come and helped me but no. I guess I was just his entertainment source. Apparently my road trip to death was funny to him. In the end it was my older sister who came to save the day. If it weren't for Gretta, I wouldn't even be here. I nearly died... all because of my selfish father.

I lost my voice for three whole months after that incident, from crying and screaming so loud and so much. I spent a whole year just not being able to move in my clean, sterol hospital bed. It would not surprise anyone to say that I absolutely despised it. My mum and dad kept tormenting me about how expensive the hospital bills were going to be. They wouldn't care. They never did and I was used to it. I endured third degree burns all over my now scarred, slit body. That's what I imagined the 7th level of hell to feel like at the time...just without the messed up demons, the rocky, deep scary setting and the searing heat that would cripple you in seconds.

I needed thirteen surgeries to just be able to move. Thirteen is a bigger number than you think i'm telling you. Thirteen different major days, Thirteen times I will need a needle aggressively stabbed in my arm, and Thirteen different times I have to wake up wondering if I died.

One of them had a forty percent chance of death. It was some sort of heart and intestine operation. I just imagined a scalpel slitting in the centre of my weak heart and blood exploding out in clumps until my body died of blood loss. I didn't want my body to give up on me. It was not meant to cause me pain. It was meant to be my friend and give me life.

But what really made me panic was imagining my intestines being chopped in half with a big butcher's knife. I was extremely scared. Scarder than if I got exposed to my phobia. When the doctor tried to put me to sleep me and my weak body protested as I was drifting more and more into sleep.

"no..HELP im going...to die im too young...." I coakley wailed in a quiet voice. I hoped that somebody would just hear my cries for help. I just wanted to be safe and most importantly, be alive. I tried attacking the doctor but it was too late. The hands that lifted up in front of me felt numb as it crashed on the stretcher. I felt my eyelids become really heavy. I was nervous. I thought that this was going to be the last of me.

Surprisingly I survived. Barely though. All that my ears could hear for the rest of the day was the beeping of the machines around me. An old woman who was in the room next to me passed away. I could hear her family crying and gasping around her as a machine's beeps went to a flatline. Could imagine it was hers as she got pulled on a stretcher into what I thought was the morgue. As hers went slower, mine only got faster. Because when I was chilling in my room the next day and looking at my heart rate. It was not pretty. My heart monitor was going at inhuman speeds and numbers. At first it seemed normal.

But then my stupid small child brain noticed that this was just not normal. 78...90...94...It felt like my heart was jolting inside of me. Like doing its own thing. 100...106...110...I felt myself going corrupt.... I was getting nervous. So nervous that I imagined a gravestone with my name carved on it. The thought was sickening.

The beeps on the monitor machine were going faster and faster each second. It gave me adrenaline but not in a good way. 118...139...168, At this time I felt like my heart exited my body as I was slowly losing my ability to breathe. 171...174...181. My heart beat travelled so fast that the beeps on the machine couldn't even pronounce the full word. I was dying...

I was spitting watery blood and it was heavily staining the clean white sheets in puddles. My voice came back to me. I started yelling, I started screaming, I started to choke... A nearby nurse experienced the entire thing right in front of her eyes. Doctors came sprinting straight for me. "CODE BLUE! CODE BLUE! Heart rate 180 and above. C02 levels are unstable. They were frantically getting their surgical tools out as I lost my entire consciousness, misty blackness swirling my already blurry vision. My muscles felt so tense and I felt like they could rip and stretch just like pulled pork.

I later found out that one of the doctors was really inexperienced at their job and left the scalpel tool right next to my intestine. A really small pebble was found in my right lung so I had to get my whole lung removed... It felt so bad just being able to breathe to half my full potential...but I did have to live with it. So, I slowly got used to the ugly feeling.

Once I gained my full voice back, I certainly was not on speaking terms with my disgusting, mousy father. He took it as an offence. He trudged up to me one day when I was recovering in the hospital room. Just his presence sent shivers down my painful spine. What I wanted to do was crack his neck, hang him, murder him. But in a sneaky way so i'd never get caught. I couldn't do it though... I could still hardly move. But when I do, I'll enjoy doing it...

"LISTEN HERE!" Dad screamed the loudest he could. I could feel the ugly adrenaline rush in me again.

His voice even made me jump. I started wiggling in my bed hoping to escape him but it was no use. I was just a lost cause at this point...He aggressively pinned me to my pillow and sheets. Dad was strong. Real strong. So strong that he lifted a five hundred kilo dumbbell once, and chucked it out of the window. He never goes to the gym. I swear I saw him take steroids a few times. It's no surprise to me. Dad is definitely messed up in the head. It makes me scared.

"TALK TO ME OR I'LL KILL YOU KID!" He yelled in a raspy aggressive manner.

I started to ball.

"Leave me alone... let go of me..." I managed to say. I was only four and i didnt deserve this. I did not deserve any of this. I could feel his hands tense up as he grappled onto me harder. I felt my blood circulation get weaker and weaker, as my arm turned blue. Dad had no mercy and I could see it on his unmeaningful face. His uncleaned, sharp teeth clenched, eyes grew so big that it was hard for me to look at. His veins strook out and I swear that I saw one burst. I was scared for my life. I wasn't going to die in some stupid surgery. My father looked like he was going to kill me. But before he could even spit one more word, luckily security pulled him out of the building. If there were no cameras, it could've been much, much worse. That was not even the worst of my days.

Forced and LockedWhere stories live. Discover now