He Hit Me!
I was twelve years old when my view on reality changed and I saw first-hand the ugly truth that life had to offer; it was a day I will never forget. Every morning my best friend, Jackson, would come over to walk with me to school. We were in the same sixth grade class and we lived right across the street from each other. One morning he came to my house, as he had done every school day for the past two years. I met him at the door and I could immediately tell something was wrong. I could see that he had been crying. His eyes were swollen and had dark circles under them. When I asked him what was wrong he replied by telling me, "Nothing". He was looking down at the ground and was not as talkative as I knew him to be.
I could tell that he had something on his mind and so I continued to question him, letting him know that I was not going to stop until he told me what was going on. That was when Jackson looked at me; his eyes were filled with tears. He said, "If anyone finds out what I am about to tell you, then life as I know it will get much worse." He sat down right there on the sidewalk and began to cry. I had never seen my friend cry before and it was scaring me.
"He hit me Jessica, my dad hit me and I think I am really hurt," he said. I could not believe what I had just heard. I mean, we were both no stranger to getting a good "spanking" by one of our parents when we acted out, but I could tell this was something more than that.
"How are you hurt? Where did he hit you? Show me!" I said. He carefully stood up, turned his back to me and lifted his shirt. I can remember being horrified by what I was seeing. He had been beaten with what I could only imagine to be a belt and it was bad. He had open wounds all over his back and most of them were still oozing small amounts of blood from them.
"Jess, you have to promise. You have to promise never to tell anyone!" he cried. I knew this had to be my best-kept secret. I knew that if his dad found out then he would get it again and it would be ten times worse when he got home. I swore at that moment I would never tell a soul, but as soon as I uttered those words, I began questioning whether I could follow through. This was my best friend and he was hurt. How was I supposed to just pretend that it did not happen?
That day at school, I watched him and how he could not move even the slightest bit without grimacing in pain. We did not play at recess, he could not run, or climb, or even swing without feeling the pain his father had inflicted upon him. I kept waiting for one of the adults to notice. I hoped someone would see what was going on. I hoped they would keep him safe and not let him go back home to the monster who did this to him, but no one did.
After school, we walked home in silence both realizing what he had to go home to. I wanted to run away and go somewhere we would never be found. I did not want my friend to go back to that house. However, I knew that we would not last long on our own. Right before we rounded the corner, Jackson stopped and looked at me. He said, "Promise again, promise you won't tell anyone".
"I promise, I said.” Then we both went home. As soon as I was in my house, I started to cry. My mom came running in to me thinking that I was hurt. I remember her asking me repeatedly what was wrong and why was I crying. "I cannot tell you," I said. I could see by the look on her face that was not going to work as an answer. She kept at it and did not leave my side until I had broken down and told my friend’s secret that I swore I would not. She began to cry with me and we just sat there holding each other.
When she finally looked up at me she said, "We have to protect him, and this is the only way I know how". She got up and called the police. I could feel the betrayal run through my whole body. I shook with the fear of what was about to happen.
Not long after she hung up the phone, the police were across the street gathering up my friend and his three sisters. I watched out the window as all four children were placed into the cop’s car. Their mother was out on the porch screaming and crying, acting as though she had no idea why this was happening. They placed the father in hand cuffs and put him in a second police car. I looked back at the car my friend was put in and could see him staring out the window, looking back at me with tears running down his face.
According to Samantha Gluck, a journalist who specializes in health care trends, "Social workers and other appropriate authorities will investigate the situation and evaluate whether or not abuse or neglect has occurred. If they determine the child is being abused or neglected, they may temporarily or permanently remove the child from the situation and he or she will undergo further diagnostic tests and exams. The investigative team will then come up with the best possible recovery plan for the child". (Gluck, 2012)
In the case of my friend, he and his sisters were back in their home together with their mother and father within a few days time. In fact, it is estimated that "7 out of 10 children who were abused by their parents return to their care, and 10% end up being abused again." (Chosunilbo 2013) I do not know the exact circumstances that lead to my friend’s father not being punished in any way for his crime, but I do know my friend was afraid to tell the police the details of the beating and lied about what happened that day. Unfortunately, the abuse continued for several more years until my friend was old enough to move out of his home. He was only 16 when he left to live with some friends.
As for me, I never told anyone about the abuse again. I witnessed what my friend went through and it took a long time for him to feel that he could trust me again.
