This is the story of Annie Weber, as told to Gorges Smythe. This entry is actually an insert for a previous post.
I’m pretty sure that I was a teenager the last time that my father beat me. I have no idea what it was that set him off; it never took much. He beat the other kids a little, but it was mostly me that he poured his raging anger out on. It may have been that he was beating Mom and I was begging him to stop. That happened a lot, and when it did, he usually worked me over when he was done with her. She never did anything to deserve such treatment either.
I remember that Dad had slapped and punched me until he finally knocked me to the floor between the woodstove and the wall. Then he started kicking me in the head and body. By this time, my mom and brothers and sisters were screaming for him to stop, that he was going to kill me. Not done, he took a broom handle and worked me over some more, while the others continued screaming. When they tried to grab his arms and legs, he’d throw them off like they were rag dolls. Finally, he DID stop.
I was bruised and bloody all over and couldn’t move. I lay there several minutes, wondering if I was going to die. Eventually, he yelled at me, “Get the hell out of there and go to bed!” I couldn’t get up, though I tried. My sister began helping me, though, and I finally managed to get up and go to bed. I remember that as much physical pain as I was in, it was nothing compared to the pain of seeing the anger and hatred that my father had for me. I never learned what it was that caused him to hate me so. I wish I could have made some sense of it, but nothing about it made any sense.
Somehow, I avoided getting beat anymore after that. Maybe, he realized just how close he’d come to murdering me and going to prison. I do know that his attitude changed very little toward me as long as he lived, only his actions. Still, he’d sit in his chair of an evening and read his Bible. I know very well that it said the same thing that mine did, so I could never figure how he justified his actions and attitude toward me. One of the last things that he said to me before he died at age 88 was a deliberate insult, despite everything I’d done for him and mom over the years. © 2016