making monsters from children vol 2
Though I feel the darkness of death entomb my mind, I will not fear the darkness, though I feel my time drip from my mortal life I will not try to save it and although I know I am closer to death than I have ever been before I will not turn from it, it is just a part of every day torture to a child like me.I am just one of the abandoned of society, the lost and the forgotten children, the shame no one wants to see or hear.
I am one of the experiments in child control, my name is Anderson, since it is rare I will ever hear my forenames again in anything but disgust, anger or with malice, we will dispel with the pleasantries, I am Anderson.
I will be Anderson for the next few years, if I can survive that long, you think I jest, yet the truth of a tortured child can rarely be told as a lie, only experience can teach a child the act and fact of torture, only living with real monsters can one truly learn of the monster inside us all.
The uncontrolled lust and hatred, the sexual pleasure of pushing someone to the point of death and pull them back again, does this surprise you, does it enthrall you too the glories and pleasures of stark violence and the suffering of the undefended, whilst you may think you have a morality that will stand you in good stead, the dried blood of the innocent is at your feet, the forgotten souls of your care system.
I was between ten and eleven when I got put into care, with my brother, though a brother he would not be for long, we would both be driven by our personal instinct for self preservation that is in every child, both of us very different kinds of child, both with different ways of dealing with everyday horrors, blood and tears.
Neither of us was what could be called children, we were both breaking into houses and workplaces, running with a gang and had little concern for the consequences of our actions long before we got to the point of going into care.
What I was about to learn was the depravity of our humanity, the truth of the state and those it employs and the consequences of defiance.
The lie of torture is that we face it bravely, the urine rolling down my leg testifies to the lie, I am shaking in terror, I can control my bladder and fortunately for me I have not eaten for two days or I would have excrement to make the full house, terror, blood, sweat, screams, tears piss and shit, the full house of a child being tortured.
An inexperienced tortured will have all of this out of you in less than 2 minutes, a good torturer will make the exercise last as long as it is amusing.
The torture is not to get a confession out of me, its not punishment for genocide, it’s not actually a punishment at all; it’s for the amusement of the staff in the care home.
I am not special, different or any wiser than any other child there, but for some reason I do have something that no one seems to have for more than a split second, I have an immeasurable amount of defiance.
Where I got this I do not know, how it formed in me to be a singularity I could focus on to cope with physical and psychological torture I don’t know or really understand, even now I have no real answer to the strength of my own defiance.
From my shroud of pain and misery I hear the scream of my name, “Anderson, are you fucking listening to me? Answer me you little bastard”……
I have been standing at a 45 degree angle with my forehead against a wall for about 20 minutes, my legs are in agony, my whole head and body is burning in pain, I can smell the urine and taste my own tears rolling down my cheeks, but I will not answer.
I will scream when I am hurting but I will not answer, and scream I do when a knuckle is driven into my exposed rib cage, an impact to the back of my head I feel nothing of but the impact, the pain in me surpassed slaps and punches to my head, its just impact.
Pain and sorrow takes me to the precipice of consciousness, the sight of darkness a welcome sight for me, I know the darkness, I know the nothingness until consciousness.
I know the hatred I will feel for returning to conscious life, I know the darkness of little death, the little death that saves me from feeling the actions of the monsters hurting me.
A second in darkness or an hour matters not, I welcome the darkness.
I welcome the separation between what I know should be physically hurting me and the impact of the blows, the numbness of stark violence, the coldness to act in the same manner.
It would take me a few sessions to master the art of cruelty, the art of slow destruction; it would take time to compete with my torturers.