SYNOPSIS:

Despite being sexually, physically, verbally and emotionally abused a child blossoms late in life to finally have a peaceful life, heart and mind.

WHAT HAPPENED WILL DIE HERE

To be flipped into a screenplay after the novelization process is completed. What happened here will die here By: L. L. Hartley (Based on true events) Dedicated to my beloved and dearly missed grand-mother, Hattie Carpenter. I know that she would have wanted me to succeed in breaking the cycle. Chapter One – The house on 35th. Setting: Current day (Autumn afternoon) Early to her destination but with her anxiety running high an attractive five-foot-two inch tall, brown-gray haired woman stepped off the bus dreading, even fearing the task to come. She knows that it has to be done to save her own sanity. She’s traveled too many miles emotionally and physically for 35 years to just let the opportunity pass by. The horrible memories of her past need to go away. She has to confront the memories so she can heal once and for all. She’s tired of running (in her mind) and hiding herself from a world that she no longer trusts, even despises at times and wishes herself dead. She opened her umbrella to shield herself from the rain and started to walk thinking that she should have stayed on the bus, but it’s too late. The bus had already departed. As she continued down the sidewalk, her steps grew heavy and her heart began to tighten in her chest. She knew that she was near her first destination. It’s the house on 35th. Street. The house: where it all began in this city that the entire family relocated to from 200 miles away. To her it was supposed to be a house, a place where there would be a fresh start. She had hoped there would no longer be any more physical pain in her life. Unbeknownst to her, the patterns of pain would soon enough emerge. As she counted her steps (due to having slight obsessive compulsion disorder) she recalled how many steps of four it was to that house from the main street. She had soon arrived at the century old house. With the umbrella shielding her line of sight she faced the house and lifted it ever so slowly as she closed her eyes and thought to herself reassuringly that she could do this. Blindly, she adjusted her glasses knowing that what comes next will not be an easy task. She grimaces in fear as she opened her eyes. There it is the house where it all started in this town. When she looked at the house she noticed that it’s now painted a different color and the landscaping appears to be the same, shabby. The front door step on it is still missing. She saw that the Victorian styled home had not aged well. It was apparent that even though the majority of the neighborhood had been revitalized that perhaps the owners, over the years, could not update the house probably because it would have been too costly. She had recalled that the house was reminiscent of one of those old haunted houses that you see at Halloween. Maybe it seemed that way because of the horrors she endured within those walls. While blankly staring at the house she snapped to, recalling the task that she had went there for. She juggled the umbrella, lowering it so she could hold it between her head and shoulder much like she used to hold her violin when she was nine years old, as she opened her large purse that was well prepared with everything that she will need for the day. As she reached into her purse she felt the small audio recorder and the digital camera that takes still pictures and does video as well. Lowering her head she grumbled at herself for forgetting that she also wants to take still pictures, do a quick ten second video of the house and audio record what she does. After pulling out the recorder she turned it on and places it in her left coat pocket. The next thing to come out of her purse is the camera. After turning on the camera she started taking pictures in a panoramic style. She then switched the camera from picture mode to video mode, turns her back to the house and walks across the street to the other sidewalk. After adjusting the lens she shot the video and was pleased that that part of the task was done. The camera is then turned off and she placed it back in her purse. While in her purse she grabbed the envelopes and pulled them out. She noticed that the envelopes are not in the order that she would have liked them to be in. Many of the envelopes she won’t need for another 200 miles. Shuffling through them with her cold hands, she locates the one labeled for the house on 35th. Street. She puts the correct envelope in her left hand before closing her purse then pulled up the umbrella and switches the two. She then looked up again at the house to determine which door to put the envelope on. She stopped for a moment and thought to herself that she could also put the envelope in the mail box. Her knees and hands started to shake when she realized that once the envelope is on the door or in the mailbox that there will be no turning back, that the task she had set out to do must be completed. No, she thought. The mailbox isn’t an option because the mail carrier or an identity thief might take it and obviously the front door is out of the question because of it not having any door steps leading up to it. Settling for the option to put the envelope on the right side door where the long porch is she walked up the empty driveway to it. The old steps creaked every time she planted her foot on one of them. It was just a few steps up and ten steps long to the door. She passed in front of the big dining room window noticing that the curtains are drawn and all is quiet. Not even a dog can be heard like so many years ago when her family had a Doberman dog. Every time someone was on the porch the dog would rise up like a cobra snake in the window and bark her head off. Before she knew it, she was at the side door that opens into the kitchen. There, that didn’t seem so hard she had thought to herself. Now that she was on the porch she sat her umbrella to the side not closing it because she will need it quickly enough. Placing the envelope back into her left hand she reached for the screen door and grasped the handle. As she did so, a flood of memories came to her shaking her to the core as if she was having a premonition like one of the characters from her favorite television show. Still holding the handle to the screen door with her right hand she bent over putting her left hand and the envelope, crinkling it, on her left knee. She shook her head trying to be free of the flashbacks. She doesn’t want to see the flashbacks but she has to see them. She has to confront them at this house and at this time so she can heal herself. So she lets them invade her mind. The first flashback takes her back to February 22nd. of 1979 when she was 13. They had just moved to this house two months earlier. It was the day that she started menstruating. She hid herself in the bathroom on the other side of the kitchen, hiding, from the evil fourth step-father until her mother came home from the grocery store. He was a very unpleasant man to her. He was addicted to pain medications and was a mean drunk. At the time he was 34 years old, had a gut on his five-foot-ten inch frame with short brown wavy hair, one blue eye and one green eye. While hiding in the bathroom she made use of it by taking a hot bath. Afraid, scared and alone she felt until she heard the distinct opening and closing of the side door. Her mother was home. After getting out of the tub, drying off, clothing herself and taking care of her new found problem she told her mother of the event and went upstairs to her bedroom. Her next flashback is of the time that the evil step-father had retorted “Put a cork in it”. He was referring to her menses. What a horrible and mean thing to say to a 13 year old girl and how dare her mother tell him! Other flashbacks came to her mind of when her half-brother was brought home by the police for stealing and of him throwing knives at her to whom she stopped him by throwing something bigger at him. That something was their baby half-sister’s play pen. Not all of the memories were bad. There were some good ones like when she was up in her room that had posters of Leif Garret, Shaun and David Cassidy and Parker Stevens on the walls. She would often listen and sing along to Jimmy and Kristy McNichol’s album, read “Tiger Beat” magazine and tried to emulate the fashion models in the magazine. Her bedroom was a sanctuary to her. It was a place for her to feel safe in. She would have felt safer if during the summer months that there wasn’t what seemed like a colony of bees at the only window to her room. Luckily, there were no bad memories from the school she attended. Sadly though, that would change in a matter of months. The biggest and the absolute worst memory was now forming in her mind. Her nose began to tingle as tears began to well up in her eyes. She tried gripping the screen door handle tighter as she fell to her knees. Her gut was hardening, her body was shaking and tears were now flowing heavily. She rocked herself back and forth wishing that the memory had not come. But it had to come. She was now face to face with the start of it and where it happened. It was the evil step-father beating her with his leather belt doubled-over and it was over something so small and so trivial. It was because she had forgotten to empty the dish rack. As he pulled his belt off of his pants he was calling her all sorts of foul names raising his voice more and more. With every step that he took closing in on her he doubled his belt and placed the buckle in his right hand. She tried to protect herself but she was really in no position to do so because she had been sitting on the floor cross-legged watching the television. All that she could do was turn and raise her arms up to shield herself from the impending blows of his belt but he grabbed her arms as she raised them. Being stronger than her he was able to position her so that he could beat her ass as best as he could. His left knee was on her back, her hands were in his left hand, his right leg was stabilizing him and he just kept beating her repeatedly with the belt in his right hand, blow after blow after blow after every heart crushing blow until apparently he got his anger out. Feeling satisfied with himself he stood up and walked away screaming to her to go to her room. With tears in her eyes and a serious sting on her lower back and rear she ran upstairs to the top bedroom on the right hand side. It was her bedroom. Once inside she put a chair in front of the door and the back of it under the knob essentially locking it. Sanctuary. The beating took a lot out of her. On her stomach, because the rear was hurting, she laid on her bed sobbing ‘til she could sob no more. It was now night-time. She decided that it was best to go to bed early and to be as quiet as possible so as not to anger the evil one. It was time now for her to change into her night-gown. As she did so she caught a glance of her backside in the full length mirror on the wall. She was completely covered in fresh bruises and worst yet because of the severe beating she has started menstruating early. It had not been 28 days. She was horrified at the fact that she now had to go downstairs to the bathroom to take care of this problem. Tip-toeing down the stairs she could hear the television. At the bottom of the stairs she peeked around the corner thankful to see that he was passed out which allowed her to scurry to the bathroom and then back up to her room. Again she put the chair to the door, turned out the light and went to bed. The pattern, his pattern had re-emerged. The abuses were starting again. With the memory now fading she catches her breath and sighs. It’s almost over, it’s almost done. It seemed like hours had passed but it was a few mere minutes. She stands herself up, pulls out a tissue, wipes away her tears, gathers her senses, shakes them off and pockets the tissue inside her coat. Looking down at her left hand she knows what comes next. She places the envelope between the door and the screen door, closes the screen door and picks up her umbrella hoping that the current occupant of the house will heed her words from what’s inside that envelope. Stepping down from the last step she took out the audio recorder turned it off and placed it in her purse. Looking up and out to the street she saw the newspaper reporter that had promised to follow her to write about this journey and bring awareness to the fact that post-traumatic-stress-disorder is not just a soldier’s disease but it is also suffered by more women than men and often starts in childhood. The reporter had stood there and saw that she had fallen to her knees and was in that position for some time. He wondered what the hell had happened that could bring a person to their knees then he recalled the nature of this gathering and realized that she had been having flashbacks. To him this was a boring assignment, a fluff piece of a human interest story. He didn’t say a word about it as she approached. This was the first time that they had met face to face. He too was attractive but older than she was. They formally introduced themselves (he being William Baxter) to one another as she lit a cigarette to help ease her nerves. She needed that injection of nicotine to calm herself even more so and gain composure over her emotions. How she wished that she was Vulcan, to not allow any show of emotion, to instead rule her life with logic. As she stood there enjoying the calm that each inhale of the cigarette gave her there was small talk about the weather. It was raining and cold. They both remarked about the liquid sunshine. This is a common saying between Oregonians, “If Oregon didn’t have its liquid sunshine, it wouldn’t be so green and lovely during the summer”. As she exhaled her last draw, she pulled out her portable ashcan and extinguished her cigarette and promptly returned it to her purse. William could no longer bear his curiosity, seeking confirmation of his thoughts and asked her “Why were you on your knees for a few minutes?” She said to him of what he had thought, that she was having flashbacks. Embarrassed of the fact that his first sight of her was in a moment of weakness she patted her purse and said “I got it all on audio so you can listen to what transpired at a later time. Shall we?” as she pointed to the car. “Of course!” he said, eagerly hoping that this story would be better than he expected. They each opened a car door, closed their umbrellas and he got into the driver’s seat. Before she got into the car she looked back at the house and thought to herself that the grandest way to heal from the hurt that happened in that house was if she ever won the lottery that she would buy the house, tear it down and build her dream house from her favorite show and fill it with happy memories. But, she thought better of it. The chances of winning the lottery, any lottery is very slim. So, maybe, just maybe after the contents of the envelope are read, the future will change concerning that house. She was content with that thought as she climbed into the front passenger seat of the car. With the seat belts now buckled and the car started she put her cold hands to the heating vent to warm them. Turning to her William asked “Where to next?” She replied as she shuddered with “South-East Taggart Street to where the traumas continue. Those memories are different but still they are just as bad compared to this house and worse yet what happened 200 miles from here.” William then did a u-turn and pulled the car up to Hawthorne where he made a right turn. They were now heading East driving past the old movie theatre and grocery store that she used to frequent as a teenager. She was well on her way to a complete ripping of her very being, her core, her soul.