The Autobiography of a Fractured Soul

This is not a traditional autobiography. I will not talk about my entire life story. Instead, I wish to focus in on a few key moments in my life and write about them as if they are their own short stories. These 'short stories' will not be in chronological order of my life. I hope this doesn't put anyone off from reading. There will be no set schedule as to when I will write. I must warn you, some of the stories I will share are not pleasant and are extremely personal. I only wish to have somewhere to write about my experiences in life without judgement or ridicule. Thank you for reading this.

‘Yu’ see ‘de colour of yu’ skin?! Yu’ a fuckin’ Babylon in’a black man skin, yu’ disgrace everyone in’a ‘dis pussyclart yard!’

'Oh leave him alone,' my mother suggested feebly.

My stepfather and I never saw eye to eye when I was growing up. Coming from a highly religious and strict Rastafarian household twisted him into a very bitter and stern man. He regularly berated and disparaged me; it seemed I was never good enough for him. Over six foot, he towered over my siblings and me. When I was younger, I always saw him as a beast in charcoal skin, with tattoos of hip-hop legends such as Guru, DJ Premier and Pete Rock plastering the façade. A devoted Rastafarian man, patriotically wearing the red, gold and green shades, long dreadlocks framed his harsh face, a rough beard and sunken, piercing black eyes completed the ensemble that was my stepfather. His gold teeth shone bright whenever he moved his lips, a stark contrast to the vileness that his tongue would deliver.

That morning, I had just gotten up and gone downstairs to get my breakfast. Just after eleven in the morning. Fireman Sam was on TV. My youngest siblings were sitting on the rug, intently watching Sam’s every move, with the volume on full. The house was always loud, partly because of my stepfather screaming at the tops of his lungs every morning, but mainly because of the music he would have blasting from his turntables. He had these humongous turntables, and what seemed like tens of thousands of records. He was, and still is, a wicked and cruel man, but when he would unwind and wallow in the effervescent ambiance of the melodies and harmonies of old school rap and hip-hop, it would change him. He became the man my mother fell in love with, a warm and gentle giant. Everyone in the house would have to battle over the music to be heard. Somehow, he heard my entrance to the living room because I had closed the door too hard for his liking, provoking the verbal abuse I received for the next couple hours.

‘Me nah care if the pussyclart b’woy didn’t do anyting’ wrong in’a yu’ bloodclart eyes, the pussyclart b’woy is a fool and me’ll talk to ‘im ‘ow me wan’,’ he began pacing up and down the living room, ‘This b’woy in’t good enough to call me dad, ya’ ‘ere me?! Yu’ shud’ ‘av left ‘im rass with ‘im battyb’woy father!’

‘But dad, I didn’t do anything wr...,’

‘WHA’ DI’ RASS DI’ YU’ JUS’ SAY?!’ The force of his voice shoved me back a step, ‘Yu’ fucking disrespectful likkle rassclart, me nah wan’ fi’ hear yu’ again, you o’verstand?’ As he spoke, he strode towards me, covering so much ground in such little time. He loomed over me, his gangly finger inches from my face, a menacing fingernail threatening to deliver an incision into my eye, ‘Me say do yu’ o’verstand?!’ All I could muster was a rapid nod. The house seemed to fall silent when he raised his voice like that. His overzealous decibel was usually ignored by everyone, but the volume he reached then turned the heads of everyone in the living room.

My emotions got the better of me as a small tear trickled down my cheek. I was only fourteen years young when I was subjected to this onslaught of words, but he was quick to insult me over my feminine tears, ‘Yu’ pussyclart wit’ yu’ crocodile tears, me aught’a lick yu’ head off’a yu’ shoulder, battyb’woy!’ His words were closely followed by a rapid succession of open hand strikes to my body and arms, prompting me to yell out in pain, 'Me hardl'y touched yu', stop yu' bloodlcart winging yu' likkle faggot,' he screamed, before striking me again.

After those jabs, it was a barrage of constant ridicule of how I’m not good enough and will never be a son to him, how my other siblings are so much better than me in every conceivable way, how my mother didn’t really love me, how I’d never make anything of myself, how I’d live a miserable life and let everyone around me down.

I always thought he was right.

When I lived in that house with that tyrant, he made me question everyone, as he would fill my head with lies to make himself feel better about his own pitiful existence. Only a sick man would abuse a young child to the point that they dreamed about taking their own life.

Eventually he got bored of ripping my emotions to shreds and sent me to my room without my breakfast, ‘Yu’ get to eat w’en yu’ learn yu’ lesson, yu’ rassclart fucker.’ I dragged myself up the stairs, and as the tears continued to flow, the wetness clouded my vision. I slowly opened the bedroom door, tossed myself onto my bed and cried silently into my pillow. I stayed in that position for close to three hours before I finally had the courage and strength to get up and try and get myself something to eat.