A Man, a Girl, a Deserted Island - - A Crazy Epic Love Saga

Episode 41: Mommy, what does 'whore' mean?

As I told you, when I was four years old, I managed to climb up to the bathroom window and fell from there right on my head. I narrowly avoided breaking my neck. That story ended with a week of rest in the hospital.

I'm an only child, and I feel sorry about that. If I had siblings, the beatings I received from dad would have been shared among more people. Unfortunately, I didn't have siblings to hold my hand, but that doesn't mean I was completely devoid of guidance or education.

Among the first words I learned, I often heard one in particular: "whore."

"Whore, haven't I told you a hundred times not to put so much salt in the food?

Whore, are you late from work again? 

You damn whore! If that damn neighbor steps foot in our house again, I'll break her legs! 

Dare to talk back to me? I'll stomp on you, whore!"

So, one day, I gathered up the courage and asked my mom:

"Mommy, what does whore mean?"

Mom caressed my forehead, looked at me sadly, then said:

"Don't you have anything better to do outside? Look at how sunny and beautiful it is. Come on, don't stay indoors, go out and play."

Over time, I began to understand the meaning of my dad's words on my own. Along with whore, I started to add other words to my collection. For example, tramp, rag, bitch, slut. Sometimes, when I went to play with other kids in the streets around the house, I would use them too.

Fortunately for me, until I was about six years old, mom was the only one who received beatings in the house. Dad didn't hold back, he would hit her and curse at her without caring about me. Broken dishes, dad's screams, mom's cries... they were daily occurrences, part of the landscape.

But around six years old, my dad's wristwatch was going to bring a change in my life. That wonder of a watch was placed on our big radio in the bedroom, the radio at the end of the bed.

I liked to play with my dad's watch. I was fascinated by the glass cover, those two hands that kept spinning every time I turned the side button.

One day, I kept turning that button until there was a loud "Clank!" and then the watch refused to tick anymore.

Misfortune never comes alone, so I wasn't surprised when dad suddenly entered the room.

He looked at the watch, looked at me, placed the shot glass of brandy he held in his hand on the table, then slapped me so hard that my snot flew to the walls.

"You little brat! Did you have to touch my watch, huh?"

It was the first slap I received from dad, and that's when I learned a very important lesson: it wasn't good to stand on dad's left side. He had a fantastic strength in his left hand, he was left-handed. If he hit you with his right, you had a chance, but it was best not to give him any chance. Nothing. 

You had to run. Through the door, through the window, it didn't matter. The essential thing was to run.

"Don't hit the child on the head!" yelled mom like a furious lioness. "Children are spanked on the butt, not on the head! Do you hear me or not?"

"Shut up, whore!" said dad calmly, then pointed at me: "Who does he resemble? He resembles you, damn seed!"

In the years that followed, whenever I messed up (and I messed up a lot), dad used to remind mom that I was a "bad seed," that I resembled her and that I wouldn't amount to anything in life.