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Sample - Speedy Emi


My name is Emilia, or ‘Speedy Emi’ as the Russian police nick-named me and this is my story.

 

My birth was the result of a caring doctor who, having previously succumbed to the pleading of the daughter of someone who used to be a very powerful man in our village, finally summoned up the courage to say no. He said no after great inner turmoil at already having given the girl four abortions. He refused the fifth request and I was born; much to the chagrin of the seventeen-year-old girl who was my mother.

My mother was the youngest of five children. Their sexes are immaterial to my story and suffice it to say that her position amongst her siblings probably spoiled her. I doubt she was ever told no.

Her parents were once rich and for most of her life she wanted for nothing. My mother had been born in the larger of two houses that my grandfather had built on land that stretched for five-hundred metres to the south-west and twenty metres between east and west. The land was on the eastern edge of Fenyeslitki, a town on the Northern Great Plain region of eastern Hungary, near the Slovakia/Ukraine border.

The man who was to become my father was aged twenty-one when he met my mother. I was born to them four months after they married, in my Father’s hometown of Kisvarda

I cannot remember my baby years, nor can I remember my father ever being at home during those years. I learned later that my father had been drafted into the Hungarian army shortly after my birth. He divorced my mother on his release from the army and that divorce in itself was the cause of certain problems which surfaced many, many years later.

My baby brother and baby sister were born two years apart, my brother arriving two years after me; and therein lays another story.

I cannot remember exactly when the beatings started or why, but should my memory ever fail me, I still have small depressions and minor bumps, all listed on my Hungarian medical records, which would be accepted as evidence in any court of law.

If pushed to put a date on things I would probably say the real abuse started when I was aged about six but it was not the pain of a stick, or a shoe, or a kick raining down on me that hurt. The physical pain brought forth tears but the real hurt, the agony, the soul-destroying, heart-breaking hurt came from not knowing why.

Why was I being beaten, why was I not liked, where was my Daddy? Surely my Daddy would not allow me to be hurt like that. Surely my Daddy loved me. Maybe it was me. What was I doing wrong? What could I do to stop my mother not liking me? I wanted to be loved, to be held lovingly, to be cuddled, to have my hurt kissed better. For years I waited for that tender touch, that gentle squeeze in my mother’s arms.

It never came. Never.

At aged ten, something happened that changed me forever, although, I did not realise the impact the event had on me at the time,

But I need to start at the beginning and get things in a logical order.

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