My story isn’t an easy one to tell, and it all started when I was just a five-year-old. One day my mother came home from work, just like any other day, but this time a new boyfriend came with her. This boyfriend was the first I’d ever seen besides my dad and my sister’s dad. For the first few months, he seemed like a great guy, but then it all went down hill when I started school.

I remember that day clearly. Nervously, I rose up for my very first day of school. I slipped into the clothes my mom had selected for the special day and descended down the stairs rapidly to show my mom and her boyfriend. I disembarked down the carpeted stairs only to hear her boyfriend say, “She went to work early. I’ll be taking you to school today.”

Before I could think, the words, “Why? She knew this day was important to me,” slipped from my mouth. He immediately told me my pants were too low and yanked them up above my bellybutton with force and tightened my belt as tightly as it could go. I struggled to breathe. I knew this was not normal, but I kept it that way. Feeling defeated and upset, I went out to his vehicle.
Later that day when my mom arrived home, she asked me why my pants were so high and tight. I told her that her boyfriend told me that’s how all people wear their pants. She went to talk to him about it, and she came back a few minutes later and told me it was taken care of--or so she thought.

That night when everyone else was asleep, he forcefully shoved a pillow over my face. He harshly told me, “What happens between us, stays between us. Do you understand? Next time you tell your mom something like that, it’ll be worse.” I responded with muffled screams for help. He refused to take the pillow off until I quieted. I had so much trouble sleeping that night, wondering if that monster was going to come back in my room and harm me again.

As the years passed, the intimidation became worse. He forced me to call him “Dad,” and he called my real dad “The Devil.” I wondered, ‘What did I do to deserve this and why me?’ The sad truth was I blamed myself. I thought I must be a horrible child, and that I, in fact, deserved this. Every day I prayed to a god that I soon realized wasn’t there. I lost faith in everything and everyone.

The physical beatings started to become worse and worse as the months passed. He would hit me on top of the head just so no bruises would be left behind. Have you ever had someone pull your arm so far behind your back it felt every muscle was being strained? I have multiple times. Even though I was beaten almost to the point where I was about to pass out, the profane words left a deeper lasting scar.

One account happened on a cold, frigid December morning when I was going to my grandparents’ house. I lowered myself into the car, only to find that he had taken back into the house the one toy I wanted to take with me. He went back into the house because he “forgot” to get something. He returned with the toy he had just retrieved from up the stairs. I started screaming to my mom that I wanted my toy back, and boy did he give me the toy. I yelled, “I want my toy, so I’m not bored at grandma’s house!”

He responded, “Shut up kid, or I’ll give you something to cry and yell about.” His red, glaring face burned while his hand was rising. I shut my eyes only to open them to feel a very sharp pain on my lip. He had thrown the toy at me so hard it left a crimson, blood-dripping gash on my lip. My mother started to scream and yell with horror as I sat there with blood rushing from my lip. The words I heard were new to me: “You son of a b****! What have you done!?” She rushed me into the house to stop the bleeding, and when she did, she confronted him about what he had done. The words escaped from his mouth with a serpent-like pronunciation, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to throw it that hard, and I didn’t want it to hit his face! He must have grabbed the toy and hit himself in the face with it.” My mom believed every word he said. It was my fault the toy busted my lip open. Once again, I deserved the pain that was inflicted upon me.

More vivid accounts of the abuse never received dates. As I aged, I learned to block out the grim memories—not wanting to remember what I was put through. People told me that it made me a stronger person, but I knew that this didn’t make me stronger; it made me deathly afraid at every turn. I stopped trusting people, drew away from family, and stayed in my room like a hermit. At home I was miserable, but I never let it show anywhere. As far as people knew, I was a happy, normal kid.

I realized the only place I felt safe was at my grandparents’ house and my father’s house. Soon, he made it so I didn’t even feel safe at my grandparents’. He started to come into their house, eat with the family, and closely monitor me with every bite I took. His deathly black eyes pierced my soul with every cold stare. If I started to eat “too much,” he kicked me in the leg with a force great enough to hurt me but kept him unnoticed to the others around the table.
Then I started to visit my father every other weekend. That home became my sanctuary. It was the only place he could never enter, and it was where I felt the safest. My dad noticed that whenever someone moved in a room I flinched and that I would closely evaluate any room I was put in. He realized something was wrong, but I never told him. I gave him excuses: “I have a headache” or “I’m just tired, Dad.”

When I was eleven, I finally told my dad, mom, and grandparents what was happening to me. The family had many different reactions. Mom called me a “drama queen” and told me that “the monster,” as I had come to call him, would never hurt me. She said that and I lost all comprehension of my surroundings. My own mother didn’t believe me, so who else would? I just ignored the statement, thinking, ‘Why would she say this? I wouldn’t lie to her like this.” I saw the rage flare in my father’s once-peaceful brown eyes when I told him, and that day he hired a lawyer to get full custody of me.

My dad had no evidence, besides my word, that the beatings were occurring—until around my twelfth birthday. It was my dad’s weekend to see me, and I was so excited because I hadn’t seen him for a month because of my mom’s sneaky boyfriend had prevented it. “The monster” told me right in front of my mom that when my dad arrived to the house I would tell him, “I don’t want to go to your house. I hate you.”

I looked at him and replied, “I go where I want to go, and I chose to be with my dad this weekend.” He wasn’t too happy to hear me say that either. He threw me down with so much force I felt the all the air escape my body. My mom intervened, “You leave him alone!” Sadly, as I lay on the ground, catching my breath, he went after her. I defended her. I jumped up and pushed him away from her. I didn’t get to her fast enough because by the time I pushed him away from her, she lay on the ground crying. He attacked me once again, but this time he lifted me up by my neck. To his surprise, my dad witnessed it all. At that moment, my dad became a hero—my hero. He told my mom and me, to “go outside.” My mom’s coward-of-a-boyfriend grabbed my two-month-old brother to use as a shield so my dad wouldn’t beat his head in. The cops soon arrived to arrest “the monster” and take statements from everyone who witnessed it. After they took pictures of my injuries, the police interviewed my mom, and I could hear every word she uttered. She said, “Nothing happened, officer. This is just a big misunderstanding. He never hit me or my son.” When I left her, I said, “You tell them the truth. Stop lying for him!”

In November of my seventh grade year, it was finalized. “The monster” only went to jail for three days of his ninety day sentence. For the hearing I never had to testify. They took pictures of my swollen and bruised neck, and the police had multiple witnesses. At the custody hearing, I witnessed the hurt I caused my mom and my grandpa by choosing my dad as my residential parent. My grandparents and mom cried aloud as the judge gave his final verdict, passed on by the third party lawyers. I don’t know what my mom’s lawyer said. I guess I never will, but the lawyer my dad had hired came out of the room and said, “Mark, we won.” From that moment on, I called my dad’s house my home.

I feel like I abandoned my mom sometimes. After all, when “the monster” would come at my mom with his rage, I was the one who saved her, a young boy taking a beating just so his mother wouldn’t have to. I sense that some would call that bravery, but I called it love. I never wanted to see my family hurt by my choice, but this wasn’t something I wanted to do. It was something I had to do.

Right now I’m a seventeen-year-old boy who still has emotional and physical scars from the abuse. I’ve learned to cope with it, mostly through humor. I almost shed a few tears recalling all these events, especially the part about the court date. Seeing my grandpa cry was the single hardest moment I’ve ever witnessed. You think physical beatings are bad? Trying watching a seventy-year-old man, who referred to you as his best friend, shed tears over, what he thought was, losing his first grandson. That was tough of my heart.

To whomever reads this: Tell someone, and if that someone doesn’t help or believe you, tell someone else. Seek help in any way possible. I am Quin, and my story was and never will be easy to hear or tell, but I have learned one lesson as the years have passed: life goes on and does get better.