Life with the black demon

The bite of the black demon

A

beautiful and sunny day dawned. I had no idea that for me that day would be darker than a black night. I woke up, I was alone in the house. Nothing unusual in those days. Mom was at work, dad somewhere absent. Excited about being home alone that morning, I got up and made myself breakfast. I enjoyed my breakfast while watching the TV.

Although I was happy, or merely believing I was, still deep inside I felt some uneasiness. I could not describe that unrest. Perhaps, I thought, it was because I didn’t finish my breakfast and father might come back and find out that I still haven’t tidied up and cleaned everything. Unfortunately, my apparent peace and tranquillity didn’t last for long.

Father appeared at the door with a man whom I didn’t know. He was drunk, in fact, I had never seen him so drunk before. He looked at me in a strange way. I felt terrified, though I had no idea why I felt that way. Maybe I had a hunch, I don’t know. I just couldn’t get rid of the agitation I felt in my chest.

I said to myself:

- God, help me, don’t let him be mad at me!

I was scared by that look. In a commanding tone, he ordered me to find something to eat in the fridge and bring some alcohol from the pantry. I dutifully carried out the order. Father leaned back on the couch and turned the music volume up. He was hugging that stranger, and they were singing and laughing. Suddenly, the guest got up and decided to return to his own home. We were left alone, my father and I. Even in the darkest thoughts, I could not imagine what would happen in the next few hours. I sat down and he told me to get up and come sit closer to him. I thought he was going to hug me like his daughter... He was drunk. I don’t know why, but I felt fear, nervousness, and nausea inside me.

He put me in his lap. Although he almost never did, even though as his child, I longed for my father’s embrace, I didn’t feel well at the time. He started stroking me and saying I was his princess. His gaze was strange. I shuddered. Then he started touching my legs. I was confused. I didn’t know what such touches meant. He is my father. I am only ten and a half years old, I loved him. Although I was afraid of him, I loved my dad. And no matter how drunk and rude he was, I always tried to see the best in him, just like any little girl would.

He pressed me harder to his lap. I started shaking. He spoke words he only said to my mother, I remembered them:

- You are so good, pretty and I will never let anyone touch you except me. Even when you grow up, you will be mine.

Even though I was a child who didn’t understand any of it yet, I understood what he meant. I froze. Few minutes later, he started kissing me all over my body. I tried to pull away without success. I was terribly frightened when I felt his tongue in my mouth. Until then, I never dreamed that my father could kiss me like this. I could smell his foul breath and the smell of stinking alcohol all over me. I was shocked. Helpless to do anything. I couldn’t even scream. I only cried. I remember my words well:

- Dad, why are you kissing me like that? That’s not how kids should be kissed! Let me go, please! Let me go, I beg you!

To all my pleas and begging, he just said that I shouldn’t be afraid and that everything would be over quickly. I froze. I felt trapped in his arms... I knew, looking at his face, that I could no longer say a word, because that, as always, would only cause trouble, beatings, shouting.

I prayed for mum to come home. I prayed for anyone to appear, anything to happen just to save me from all of this. I said to myself:

- Mum, where are you? Why don’t you save me? Why did you leave me alone? Why did you have to go to work today?

He didn’t stop. He just kept going... He removed clothes from my body, piece by piece. I still didn’t know what that meant. He kept touching me where he wasn’t supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to do that! Yet he did. His hairy, big hands slid down my thighs, and my body. Restless fingers stroked all over my body. I was trying to get away, but I couldn’t. Out of fear, shock, uncertainty... He crossed every line with those fingers. It was clearly not enough for him. He carried my little body to the couch and lay down on me with all his weight. He captured me. He jumped on me like a scary black hound. I couldn’t understand what he wanted from me. Even though I wanted to scream, I lost my voice... He overpowered me. I couldn’t even look at him. My eyes were full of tears. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. All I could feel was the weight of his body and the putrid smell of alcohol. He forced himself inside of me! At that moment, I felt severe, unbearable pain. I screamed! I begged him to let me go. He covered my mouth with his hand and continued to defile my weak and small body. I knew, that was the bite of the black demon, my biggest nightmare. It went on for about ten minutes.

For me, those ten minutes were an eternity. It was the worst torture and the greatest pain I could remember. Not even all those beatings, harassment, nothing could compare to the pain I felt then. I wanted to die! Disappear! I wanted to be no more!

When he finished, he told me to get up and go to the toilet to wash myself, and then to come back. I barely got up and went outside. I hid behind the house and sat in the woodshed. I was broken both mentally and physically. I was afraid to go back inside because I wouldn’t be able to go through that horror again.

A few minutes later he came outside and called my name loudly:

- Sandra, Sandra, get over here right now you fucking bitch! You’ll rue this day if you don’t get over here.

Even though I didn’t want to, the fear spoke out of me. He found me and made me go back to the house. Standing there at the door, he slapped me, knocking me to the floor. I was lying in the foetal position, my stomach hurt terribly. I was wearing white tracksuit and blood started appearing on the fabric. Seeing the blood, I was even more scared. I was confused, lost. I didn’t know what to do. Completely petrified, I urinated. He forcibly lifted me, grabbed my hand and ordered me to take a bath. I went to the bathroom. The underwear I was wearing was covered in blood. I took the blood-covered clothes and packed them in one bag. I was terribly afraid that my mother or someone else would discover the clothes.

When I took a bath, I came to the living room. On his command, I sat down next to him. He said:

- What has just happened here you are not going to tell anyone, especially not to your mother, you will have to keep it for yourself until you die! You are going to forget about all of this right now!

There was nightmare in my head, buzzing in my ears, my gut was shaking. I stared at him with a look filled with hatred and fear. He said if I mentioned any of this to anyone that he was going to kill all of us, to commit a massacre, because he didn’t mind spending time in prison:

- I’ll kill you all, it’s nothing for me to kill someone, I will go to prison after that, I don’t mind, but you won’t be alive anymore, you motherfuckers.

I got really scared then. He made me scared by his threats, which he would surely fulfil. I shivered as he shouted:

- Why are you shaking? Why are you crying? Why are you sobbing?

I knew, from that moment on, my family’s life was in my hands, because if I said anything to anyone - everyone would be dead.

After about an hour, mum came home from work. I was sitting on the couch with my head down, my eyes swollen and red from all that crying. When she saw father angry and drunk, she knew something had happened. She had no idea that what had happened was the worst experience a girl, or anyone’s daughter could go through by her own father’s doing.

I was thinking about telling my mum what happened. How could I tell her? I couldn’t, because I knew that her heart, like mine, wouldn’t survive it. Additionally, there would be an utter massacre.

She asked father:

- What’s the matter, old man? Is everything all right? What did Sandra do that would bring her to tears?

I wanted to scream and say everything, but then I raised my head and saw my mum’s scared and questioning look. I told her:

- It’s nothing. I didn’t do anything.

Mum, as though she sensed something was wrong, began to cry. I got up to hug her, and my father noticed that the tracksuit I wore had blood on it. He reacted furiously:

- Fucking bitch. Take her out of here, take her to the bathroom, get her out of here and talk to her about a menstrual period.

He didn’t stop swearing:

- Fuck all of you, your father, your mother, your sister and brothers, fuck all of you; you didn’t teach her anything. Do you see her walking around me like that? Has she no shame?

Mum took me to the bathroom and looked at me in complete shock. She talked to me about sanitary pads, I didn’t even know what those were, let alone what they were used for. Mum bathed me again. I was crying. She saw the bruise on my arm and she knew he was beating me. She thought that was the reason I was crying. She helped me get dressed, put a pad in my panties and started crying along with me.

She hugged me and said:

- My God, how much longer? Oh God, have I sinned so much that you have to punish me like this?

I didn’t know if mum knew or if she noticed what actually happened.

She told me that all of this would pass one day, that I should study hard, be smart and that one day, God willing, I will get married and have a wonderful husband who won’t behave like this, like my father behaved towards us.

I asked:

- When exactly is this going to happen?

Our conversation was interrupted by my father’s yelling:

- You two, come here right now. He started shouting at my mother.

- You fucking whore, who are you crying for? Explain to me who you’re crying for, fuck your whole family and that crazy father of yours.

At that moment, the most important thing for me was just to protect my mother, so she wouldn’t get beaten.

We sat down. Mum tried, as always, to calm him down:

- Come on, old man, let’s calm down. Let’s turn on the music. Do you want something to eat?

He played the role of a “master,” while we were victims who had to obey him, or as the expression goes, “to dance to his tune.”

That wasn’t a problem for us, especially for my mother, who most of all wanted peace in the house, so that no one would touch or shout at anyone... He used to tell my mum that we all irritated him and that we would make him do the worst possible thing that is to kill all of us.

Thanks to my mother, father calmed down a bit. She always did and tried everything to calm him down.

Night fell. It was raining. We could hear thunder, and we could see lightning. He made me go to my room. Mum was right behind me and she put plastic film on the mattress because I’d wet the bed almost every night. The gloomy weather made me even more crushed and disheartened. Lightning illuminated my room. I lay down, covered my head and cried. Mum would always come and kiss me goodnight. Truthfully, after that day, I didn’t look at my mum the same way either. I was disgusted by everything. I could smell the abhorrent odour on myself. I couldn’t get rid of his odour, the smell of alcohol that left a deep mark on my brain.

I heard mum and dad having sexual intercourse in the next room. I heard my mother’s moans. I couldn’t understand how he could do something like that, after everything that happened, after the beatings, shouting, swearing, after what he did to me.

I didn’t fall asleep until the next morning. My mind was racing. I was sad at first. I wondered why I couldn’t be in the position of my sister and brother. They had fun and enjoyed the wonderful time spent together with grandparents. I knew they were having a nice time at the farm. Working at the farm brought nothing but happiness to me.

Sunrise. I didn’t want to leave the room, nor did I know how to get up, what to say, or how to behave. I heard my father got up. He opened the door and entered the room. He acted as if nothing had happened the day before.

I couldn’t look him in the eye. In those moments, I wished I didn’t even exist. I was trying to find a solution. I was trying to find a way to tell someone what happened. Even when I thought of something in my head, I quickly dismissed it. His words, that he would kill us all, which were etched deep in my consciousness, would always discourage me! Those words were enough for me to dismiss any intention I had to complain to anyone.

Mum was free from work that day and everything she did, no longer made any difference to me. She entered the room and asked me to take off my underwear to see if I was still bleeding. When I took my clothes off, there was no blood, there was no severe stomach pain from yesterday.

She told me I had to be careful now. The first thing she emphasized was that I had become a “more mature girl.” A ten-and-a-half-year-old girl?

I thought to myself:

- Oh, mum, can you not really understand what had happened? Don’t you suspect anything?

Not a day went by without me crying. As I cried then, so I cry to this day. The only emotions I had were sadness, pain, shame and betrayal.

I became disinterested about anything. I cared for no one. I didn’t even ask when my sister and brother would be back. I just lived my life because I had no other choice. I was never aware that there is a brighter side to life.

He, my father, ruined my childhood. He ruined my life. He marked me for the rest of my life, even though only he, I and dear God knew about it. The rest of the world could not understand the pain. I had to carry a heavy burden on my young and weak shoulders.

My childhood was monotonous, there was no one I could trust but myself. I didn’t want to spend time with anyone, I didn’t want to gain anyone’s trust. I was afraid of people! I was afraid of everyone! I was afraid I would go through the same hell I already went through. I didn’t want to feel “the bite of the black demon”. I was constantly trying to be alone, running away from everyday life and reality. I thought I didn’t belong to this world or this family.

I never realised that anyone could hurt a child. Every day, I posed questions over and over again. Is there someone who could hurt their own child? Is there anyone who could permanently scar, mentally and physically, their own child?

The days went by, somehow. I don’t even remember. They didn’t matter to me. Finally, sister and brother came back happy and full of wonderful experiences. I was especially struck by the fact that my father hugged and kissed them as a sign of welcome, and also said that he missed them a lot. They talked, I sat and listened to them. There was no happiness or sadness in my expression, only coldness, contempt, jealousy, envy. I wondered how a parent could make such a difference among their children. Every time I thought about it, tears would fill my eyes.

I don’t remember ever being happy again as a child. My sister and brother teased me about how they spent the whole holiday with our grandparents, and I didn’t spend even five days with them. To be honest, I didn’t feel like going anywhere, I didn’t wish to be crowded by people.

I started to lose my concentration. I had a hard time establishing normal communication with everyone. Although I loved them, I was afraid to show any emotion. I was afraid that if we got closer, I would tell them the whole truth. I chose to sacrifice myself; I carried that heavy burden by myself. I loved them and that was quite enough for me, even without getting too close to them.

I enjoyed solitude. I lost my trust in my family. I loved my mum, but I also blamed her for everything. I know her hands were tied. She could offer us nothing but her immense love.

After that terrible event, I was disgusted by my mother’s hands, mother’s kisses and caresses. Every time she’d pay attention to me, I refused the attention because I didn’t like it, but at the same time I missed her. My emotions were mixed and unclear.

A fulfilled curse

A

ttending primary school in Bihac was a difficult period for me. I couldn’t get on with other kids. The kids made

fun of me and teased me because I dressed up like a boy and I had speech impediment, I stuttered, which got worse after all I had survived.

I loved going to school and learning, gaining knowledge. However, even when I was prepared for the lesson, I was ashamed to raise my hand, because I would start stuttering immediately. I didn’t want other kids laughing at me, so I’d mostly say I wasn’t prepared. Saying answers out loud has always been a problem for me, while with my written exams, I had excellent success. I attended the primary school “Harmani II” until the fifth grade, and I always had excellent marks. School counsellor suggested to my mother to take me to a speech therapist because of my stutter, he also suggested I should see a neurologist because I would often faint.

Mum tried to explain the suggestion she was given to my dad. She said that I needed medical help and the help of a speech therapist, a neurologist, and possibly a psychologist, which made my father very angry. He said that nothing was wrong with me, that I was just pretending to attract some attention and for people to notice me more.

My mother constantly tried to explain that I needed help with speech impediment and that I should see a doctor, because my mother also had some difficulty with her speech, which may be hereditary. Stuttering worsened under stress. My father relented and agreed to send me to see a doctor, but only a speech therapist. He strictly forbade visits to other doctors. He also said, in his usual way, that we were all insane and what we really needed was a nice beating.

As always, I obeyed as I was ordered, there was nothing else I could do, I wasn’t allowed to think, let alone say or do something. I felt like I was his robot that he controlled remotely.

My mother took me to a speech therapist at the Polyclinic in Bihac. I began my therapies. The speech therapist quickly realised that in my case it was not just a congenital impediment, but that my stutter was caused by stress and fear. The doctor invited my mother in and explained my condition in detail. Mom cried while the doctor was giving her suggestions and helplessly tried to explain just how strict my father was. I only received the help of a speech therapist, even though I needed additional medical help. After two months of intensive therapy, my speech was much improved. Speech therapists taught me how to pronounce sounds and sentences without stuttering, with proper breathing exercises.

I loved going to a speech therapist, because I drew, played and read interesting stories there. The doctor noticed my talent for painting. She said I didn’t paint like other kids my age, but like an adult. In my free time I loved to draw and paint. It had a positive effect on me. And as a little girl I was very creative and meticulous. I visited my speech therapist every day except for weekends for a whole year.

A nice spring day. We’re all home. The atmosphere was relaxing because my father was cheerful, but I was tense and nothing made me happy.

Through the window, I saw a man standing in our garden, he was a shorter man, with dark hair and a moustache. Everyone was watching a movie on TV. I went out to see what the man wanted.

The man politely asked:

- Could somebody older come out, your mom or dad?

I said they could. Father came out, said hello first, and then asked if the man wanted something.

The man told him:

- I’m here to inform you that the house you live in is my house and I intend to return to my property together with my family soon.

Father looked at him in confusion and became aggressive. He kicked him in the chest and the man fell to the ground. He rose from the ground, a little frightened, and looked at my father, confusedly.

- Sir, I just want what is mine. If we cannot agree mutually and humanely, I will be forced to use legal means.

Father was very disrespectful. He cursed.

The man turned, said a date and continued: - I want you out of my home until then.

We had about half a year to move out. Parents decided we should return to Orasac, a place that was badly damaged during the war. The houses were burnt down and demolished, and the village was uninhabited. Mum got a bank loan to fix the house. In a way, I was looking forward to moving, because my nieces and nephews also had to return to Orasac.

After a few months, my father got a job at the Public Waste Management company “Komrad” in Bihac, so he also got a bank loan.

My parents would go to Orasac early in the morning when they were not working, and we would stay in the house in Bihac, alone. Parents would return home in the evening. While they were gone, I cooked, cleaned, because I knew that everything had to be perfect and tidy, and I wouldn’t get punished.

Days were passing quickly; parents were busy with housework and relocation. That period, for me personally, was difficult, stressful, sad, but also happy. Sad, because I’d have to leave my friends who accepted me in Bihac. I found my first pet there, a dog we named Linda. She was tiny, black as a little ball of wool yarn. We fed her every day. Father, even though he wasn’t happy we brought her home, allowed us to keep her. He made her a house out of planks. I gave her my favourite plate so that she could eat. When he wasn’t home, Linda spent time inside with me. We all loved her immensely, and my friends loved her too. She was cuddly and she liked children. I felt a lot better with her. It positively affected not only me but also my sister and brother. While I was at school, the only thing I thought about was when I was going home to play with my Linda.

After school, we all headed home together. As we approached the house, we heard children shouting. Linda probably sensed us, ran towards us and at that moment a car (I think it was Ascona) appeared, driving fast. I could hear the brakes, tires squeaking, and a dog squealing.

I ran. I felt tightness in my chest. I had a panic attack. I just prayed not to be my Linda. Unfortunately, Linda was lying in blood, breathing hard and with teary eyes. I cried and she was looking at me sadly. I knew that look was saying goodbye to me. Soon, she closed her sweet eyes. The man who hit her with his car, with no conscience, left without even bothering to stop the car. My sister and I removed Linda off the road, took her to her dog house, and waited for father to come home from work. Two hours later, dad returned. Linda was already stiff. Father then said:

- Don’t cry, it’s just a dog, you’ll find another one.

He carried Linda to a nearby meadow, dug a hole and buried her there. We picked some flowers and put them on her “grave.”

Until the day of our move, I visited her every day and told her about my sad life. Even though she was dead, I was confident she could hear me and feel I was there with her. I cried a lot, I missed her. She was the only one that knew about my sorrow and my hardships. I told no one but her about my dark truth. Trust me when I say this, it was as if she knew everything.

After Linda’s death, I fell into depression and retreated deeper to myself. I didn’t want to hang out with anyone anymore, I even became distant from my family, spending time alone in my room. I was not allowed to show sadness, because father would immediately start yelling. When I wanted to go to my room, I’d just say I was going to study. I struggled with my thoughts and fate on my own.

Every night when I closed my eyes, I saw the same images in my mind. I see dad raping me and I see myself, screaming and grappling. I had the same dream every night. That terrible dream of the black bloodthirsty demon would reappear every single night. And I would always pray to God that I don’t open my eyes in the morning. You are mistaken if you think that a child could never pray for something like that. I only had one wish, and that was for my mum to be well and not to stress herself. I only kept going for her, I kept quiet because of her, I never told anyone what the black demon did to me because of her.

Yet, I would wake up in the morning. We were all home; parents didn’t go to work. Everyone felt stressed. A man arrived in a grey van. Our belongings were packed in cardboard boxes. Father said we should all take a box and take it to the garden, and he yelled:

- Don’t you dare drop something!

We carried our stuff carefully outside. Father and the man were putting the boxes into the van. When they loaded things up, mom brought out sandwiches for everyone. They drove the first load to Orasac, and dad ordered us to take the rest of the boxes from the house. Mom and I took most of the stuff outside. As I was leaving to get another box, the two of them were back. My father became angry because we didn’t bring all the boxes out. He started swearing as usual, but I did not care for his words, I got used to them. I certainly didn’t expect him to praise me for what I did, I didn’t know such things happened. At least not for me.

I was happy to leave that house. I thought that if we left that house, all my memories and events that happened in it would be erased. I hoped my life at our new house would be nicer and better. I truly hopped that everything bad that happened to me would remain inside of that house. I hoped he would leave the couch where he “stripped” me of a beautiful life and a happy childhood I could have. Unfortunately, he came inside and said to the man:

- Help me with this couch.

When I heard that, a shiver went down my spine. I said to myself:

- Please, leave that couch behind at least.

I stood by the door, he looked at me and said:

- Move away!

I had no other choice but to move aside. My mother, sister, brother and I took the bus to Orasac the next day. We found all our belongings in front of the house. Father’s mom was standing in the garden and he walked past her as if she wasn’t even there.

I ran and hugged her. I loved my grandmother, even though she didn’t like my mum. She often complained to my father about my mother, although she never did anything wrong to her. I would say she was offensive towards mum, sister and brother. My grandmother had a special love for me, and I felt that love. She would secretly give me money and sweets. She would make “Bosanski lokum” just for me, which even today smells of her. Those little signs of affection stuck in my memory. Father and she didn’t have a mother- son relationship. What I can tell you, he didn’t have a good relationship with anyone in the family.

He was always trying to prove everyone that he had everything, that he was the best, that he had the best house, the most valuable, the most precious things, that he was better than his brothers, so if someone bought something, he’d immediately buy a more expensive version of that.

He liked to brag about everything, no matter if that was the truth. I thought that our new home was something positive. There were my nieces and nephews who I liked spending time with. My aunt and uncle had nine children and a more peaceful life compared to ours. I never saw my uncle hit one of his children. I spent time with them, but only if my father was away or at work.

In Orasac, my grandpa and granny kept a cow, a lot of chickens, and my uncle had a farm. I enjoyed helping out on the farm. I milked the cow with my grandmother every morning. We made homemade cheese and churned butter. I loved eating with them from the wooden “sofra” . I enjoyed everyone’s company except my father’s. He would always watch me when I ate or drank something. My grandfather also had goats which I also helped him with, but I never liked to drink goat’s milk because it had a specific smell and taste. I enjoyed the summer, I worked hard on the farm, in the garden, dug up potatoes, made hay and in a way all this made me happy. The electricity often went out and I realised that darkness and gloom negatively affected my mood. Summer passed quickly.

I continued to attend primary school in Kulen-Vakuf. I started the fifth grade. The new environment was hard for me, because they considered me to be strange. My father ordered my mother to dress me in men’s clothes, which provoked suspicious glances from the children. They stared at me, I felt the looks, but also heard the gossip. Only one girl wanted to hang out with me. She was the best pupil, not just in the class, but in the whole school. And she was modestly dressed, which was a relief for me. We also had something in common in the way we dressed. We lived in the same village and we often returned home from school together.

The school was about two miles away from my home, and my parents didn’t regularly buy me a monthly pass, so I often got on the bus at my own risk. When the driver noticed I didn’t have the pass, he would remove me from the bus and I would continue on foot. It was hardest during the winter when I had to walk for miles, and it was freezing, so the teacher would tell me to stand near the small stove in the classroom to warm myself up.

Regardless of the environment and the behaviour of the children towards me, I loved to learn. I was one of the better students in the school. I especially enjoyed biology and chemistry and dreamed that one day, God willing, I would become a nurse. I was motivated. Teachers soon noticed my talent for painting and drawing. Every year I was sent to cantonal competitions where I won awards, and sometimes one of the first three places. My drawings were put on the school walls and the other students admired my work.