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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781524613198 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 06/08/2016 |
| Pages: | 254 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.53(d) |
About the Author
Helen L. Webster first became involved in the treatment and education of family violence in 1982. Over this span of time, she spent thirteen years as an anger management therapist in Calgary, Canada, working with the extremely violent patients as well as victims of abuse. This led to the publication of her first book, Taming the Dragon, anger management for three-to-eight-year-olds. In working with the violent, Webster learned and was privy to many stories about family violence and abuse in the home. She made a decision. She would take all the pain and grief the participants shared with her over the years and write a book about what it is really like when men, women, and children are caught up in a cycle of violence.
If you or the ones you love find yourself relating to the fictional characters (done to conceal the identity of those involved in this story), then it is imperative that you seek help. Contact a shelter in your area.
Read an Excerpt
Taming The Dragon Series
There Is No Rainbow
By Helen Webster
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2016 Helen WebsterAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5246-1319-8
CHAPTER 1
Someone was crying.
Jason stirred in his sleep. The sound came from far away and wove itself into the heart of his dream. He rolled over, plunging his face into his pillow, but now the focus of the dream changed, taking on a frightful dimension. He was battling a terrible monster on top of a cliff while his sister stood on a far-away hill calling for him to help her. With her pleas ringing in his ears, he fought against the forces threatening to drag him over the edge and into the bottomless, black pit below.
He awoke with a start!
The dream-- It had been so real; so intense it sent shivers racing up his spine and he trembled. He pulled his quilt up around his chin, trying to still his pounding heart. Huddling under his covers, attempting to separate dream from reality, Jason listened. Had his sister really called for help? He didn't know.
"Jason ..." a voice wailed out of the darkness.
There it was again. He wasn't dreaming. Someone was crying, and now the sound filled his room. Frightened, Jason pulled his quilt tighter over his head, afraid to face whatever was out there.
It's the monsters! They're in my room, he muttered. They're coming to get me!
He clamped his hands over his ears and curled up in a tight ball, trying to block out the noise. Still he could hear faint echoes and knew whatever was out there wasn't going away.
Unable to get back to sleep, Jason cautiously lowered one corner of the blanket and peered into the night. His eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, failed and he rubbed them, afraid he had gone blind. His fear turned to terror as he strained to see, trying to distinguish the familiar shapes of his furniture. At last, he was able to peel away the night and the grey shapes of his dresser and night table became visible. He sighed and lowered his blanket until his head was fully exposed. Slowly, he looked around his room searching for the intruder.
He was so absorbed in finding the source of the noise that it was awhile before he realized the cries were coming from outside his room. Relieved that whatever was making the sound wasn't about to leap out and grab him, he relaxed in his bed and continued to listen. It sounded like his sister.
It must be Becky. What's her problem?
His younger sister didn't usually wake up in the night and, if she did, she didn't make any noise.
If she doesn't shut up, I'll never get back to sleep, he thought, rolling over and punching his pillow. He pulled his covers back over his head and tried to ignore her cries.
It was no use. His sister continued to cry and now he was wide awake. Angry, he threw off his blankets and laid in his bed, glaring into the darkness.
He glanced towards his window and saw a small shaft of yellow light coming in from the street below. A soft breeze rustled his curtains and the movement caught his attention. The moving curtains cast dark shadows on his far wall, and as he watched, the shadows became two monsters, twisting and leaping; engaged in a deadly battle. It appeared to him that they were fighting to see who would win the right to leap off the wall and devour him. They gouged; they ripped at each other with vicious fangs and long curled talons. It was too much.
Terrified by these unearthly specters, Jason shuddered, his body as rigid as a board. He wondered how he was going to escape, knowing it was only a matter of time before one of them leaped off the wall and clutched him in its deadly embrace.
"Go away," he moaned, "Go away."
It's Becky's fault. If she hadn't started crying, the monsters wouldn't have come. Why doesn't Mom get up and see what she wants? What time is it?
If it were almost morning, Jason was sure his mother would get up and go to her, but if it were still night--. He had to know; he had to face down the monsters and see what time it was. He rolled over and peered at this clock-radio. The red digital numbers swam before his eyes, but he stared at them until they steadied and he could read: 11:36 p.m.
I can't get up. I just can't. But I won't be able to fall asleep again unless she stops her bawling. Maybe if I keep my eyes fixed on the window, the monsters will go away. Staring at his window, Jason tried to analyze his reaction to the shadows on his wall.
This is stupid! There's no such thing as monsters and I'm not afraid.
He snuck a quick peek at his far wall. The dark figures were still there and they still looked like monsters about to leap out of a nightmare.
"I'm not afraid," he whispered. "I'm not afraid."
"NOooo ...!" a voice screamed.
Startled, Jason bolted upright and his eyes flew to his door. He shrivelled inside when he heard his dad yell. From the tone of his father's voice, Jason knew his dad was mad! And, he also knew it was his mother who had screamed.
He shivered. Now he knew why his sister was crying; now, he wanted to cry too. His parents were downstairs, but his father's voice was so loud and distinct that it almost seemed like he was standing right outside Jason's door. Jason heard his dad shout--
"You know something, Linda? You're just like one of the Pit Bull dogs. You know the kind. The ones that get a grip on your leg and won't let go, no matter how hard you try to shake them loose. Always hanging on, until one day you get enough and you take a gun and blow their God-damn head off! But, when you look down, the head is still gripping your leg."
Jason didn't want to listen to the hateful words any longer. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to stifle his father's voice.
Dad must be in one of his "moods" again.
A chill passed over Jason and he reached to the foot of his bed until his fingers touched a familiar furry shape. He picked up his stuffed raccoon and hugged it tightly.
"Help me, Pookie," he begged his best-- his only-- friend. "Make him stop."
Crash!
Jason flinched. It sounded like his dad had broken something again. His father almost always threw something-- or someone-- when he was angry. Jason was glad that he was in his room, away from the fighting, but he knew he wasn't entirely safe-- nobody was.
I hope Mom's okay.
Whenever his parents got into an argument, she came out the loser.
Don't hit her, Dad, he silently pleaded.
"Please Nick ... NOooo ...!"
His mother's scream infuriated Jason. He clenched his hands into fists, and sat in the darkness cursing his dad under his breath. He bit his teeth into his lower lip, fighting the urge to scream out his own rage. Unable to openly vent his anger and frustration, Jason grabbed his pillow and pounded on it.
"I hate you!" he hissed. "Do you hear me?" I hate you. Leave Mom alone. Oh, why don't you just die? Why can't I kill you myself?"
Hatred washed over him like waves hitting a sandy beach and he didn't realize he had bitten through the skin of his lower lip until he tasted blood.
I should go downstairs and kick the shit out of you! He flung his pillow across the room. But, he knew he wouldn't go downstairs; knew he wouldn't confront his father. Nobody dared stand up to his dad; least of all, him. Everyone was too afraid.
Caught up in his silent condemnation of his father, Jason forgot about Becky until he heard her cry out again.
"Oh shit!" he exclaimed.
His anger, so quickly aroused, vanished, leaving him shivering in the night. He hugged Pookie tighter and took a deep breath. He wondered if his sister realized that she was putting all of them in danger. If only he could shut out Becky's cries; his mother's screams; his dad's anger-- If he could do that, then maybe, just maybe, he would survive this nightmare.
But how ...?
His world was out of control and he felt himself drawn towards the bottomless pit in his dream, to be lost forever; left to drown in the noise that now, filled his room. The sounds were hateful and he felt threatened. What could he do to stop his father?
Jason pressed his fists against his forehead. He had absorbed so much, it seemed his head would split open. His stomach churned and waves of nausea washed over him. A scream of terror caught in his throat and he swallowed it, before it could erupt and alert his dad. He felt small; small and vulnerable in a world filled with violence.
Unable to cope with his emotions, the last vestiges of his self-control disappeared, and long, jagged sobs burst forth, and were muffled in Pookie's body. Scalding tears coursed down his cheeks and soaked into the soft grey fur.
"Stop it!" he sobbed. "Shit. I can't take anymore. Please stop. Please. ..."
When at last his tears had subsided and been replaced by the occasional sniffle, Jason fought to regain control of his feelings. He was exhausted. Slowly, he let his body sink back onto his bed, while he opened his fists and gently flexed his fingers. They had gone numb and the numbness hurt. When he had worked them till the circulation began to return, he turned his thoughts to his dad.
His father wasn't a tall man, but he seemed to tower over Jason, especially if he was angry. Then, it seemed liked his dad had to be at least seven feet tall. Another thing that fascinated Jason, was his dad's hands. His father used his hands to inflict punishment, and did so on a regular basis. Jason thought of these hands as a separate addition to his father. His dad's hands demanded respect, and that respect was obtained totally by fear. Jason had seen the hands punch, throw things and used to threaten, whenever his dad was angry. And, for as long as Jason could remember, he had tried to stay out of their reach. Sometimes he was successful; other times he was not.
He was also afraid of his father's eyes. Slate grey, they reminded Jason of a steel knife blade and were just as deadly. He had seen those eyes cut through a person's resolve, as easy as a knife went through butter, leaving that person a scarred, cut up, lump of quivering flesh. He should know; he'd been on the receiving end of his dad's stares often enough
I hate it when he looks at me, he thought fearfully, cautiously glancing around his room.
Thinking about his father's eyes jerked him back to reality and he was afraid that he might encounter them staring at him out of the darkness.
Man, if Dad heard me bawling, would I have been in for it!
He rubbed his face in Pookie's fur, trying to imagine what his father would do to him. At the very least, his dad would have ridiculed him for acting like a baby, but it was more likely, that he would have been severely punished.
He grabbed a corner of his blanket and blew his nose. Satisfied that no tell tale signs of his lapse remained, Jason began to admonish himself.
I shouldn't have started bawling. Dad doesn't like it when we cry, especially at night.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Becky call out to him. He know that sooner or later his dad would hear her too. Then what?
I better get up and see what's bugging her. If she doesn't stop, he'll come up here--
Jason didn't want to think about what would happen should his dad come upstairs and find them both awake. He slipped out of bed and searched the floor for his clothes.
At first, he couldn't find his jeans until he stepped on the zipper. "Ouch!" he cried hopping around on one foot and holding the other.
He put on his pants and reached down for his shirt. Only after he finished dressing did it occur to him that he didn't have to get dressed just to run to her room, tell her to shut up, and come back and climb into bed.
Gee, I'm dumb, he thought starting across the room towards the door.
He had to feel his way, while at the same time, keeping his eyes from straying over in the direction of the shadows. They were too real-- too menacing-- and, if he gave them the chance, they could still leap off his wall and grab him. Now that he had finally decided to leave his room, he was determined that nothing-- not the shadows and not his father-- would prevent him from going out into that hallway to Becky's room. He had to see her and tell her to stop crying before she got all of them into trouble.
He jumped back, startled! His head had bumped against something and he struggled to regain his composure before his imagination could take over. He reached up and his hand touched one of his model planes hanging from the ceiling.
I have to get hold of myself he said.
He felt foolish that he could be so easily frightened by a plastic airplane.
Jason stood for a few moments, staring up at them. Their grey outlines were barely visible, as the planes turned and swayed in the air currents. He gently ran his finger over the undercarriage of the model he had bumped into, wishing that it was real, so he could climb in it and soar away forever.
He moved alongside his dresser until he stood in front of the closed door. His courage vanished the instant his hand touched the door knob. His knees turned to jello, and he gripped the top of his dresser to keep from falling.
Now, he no longer wanted to leave his room; he was no longer interested in going out into the hallway. Despite the presence of the shadows, this was his haven-- his safety-- against the storm of violence waiting beyond his door.
"God give me the guts to go out there," he prayed, but when his prayer went unheeded, his fear turned to panic.
No one could help him now. He was alone.
He stood in front of the door, twisting one of his buttons, and argued with himself.
"I can't go out; Dad might be out there waiting."
"But you have to go," countered the little voice inside him. "Remember last time?"
"Yes damit! I remember but, I'm scared--"
His objection was cut short when the voice interjected, "Are you going to remain a sissy all your life? Your dad's right, you know. You are just a big baby."
"No I'm not. It's just--"
"Just nothing! Listen dummy, ... Can't you hear him? He's still downstairs. Now, don't be such a wimp. Grab the handle, turn it, and get going."
"But what if he comes upstairs and catches me out of my room? You know Dad has a rule about us leaving our rooms at night. No excuse is acceptable-- not even if we have to go to the bathroom."
"But he's not up here, is he?" the voice persisted." "And he won't catch you if you're careful. Now-- Go!"
Jason knew that there was no point in continuing the argument and instead, tried to mentally prepare himself to face whatever he might encounter when he stepped out that door. He straightened his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and tried to still his fear. He couldn't stop thinking about what would happen to him should he be caught before he could get safely back. He clearly remember the "last time" one of his dad's rules had been broken.
They had all suffered. And all because supper was late. Getting caught out of your room in the middle of the night had to be a much worse offense. That time, it was his mother who had made his dad mad, but no one had escaped being punished for her offense.
The punishment had consisted of a long "lecture" administered by his father, to her, along with Jason, his sister Becky, and his little brother Nicky. He didn't want another lecture-- not now. Not ever again.
It had taken place over a year ago, but Jason would never forget. He had just turned eleven, and Becky would have been six. His baby brother must have been eight or nine months old; Jason wasn't sure.
They had been expecting it. For days, the air was filled with tension and they all knew it was only a matter of time before their dad finally exploded. Well, maybe Nicky didn't know, thought Jason, because he's only a baby, but the rest of them knew that things were building up to a climax.
Jason wasn't sure how they were able to predict exactly when his father was likely to explode in anger. They just knew. It was sort of like knowing a storm is coming, because you can smell the changes in the air. The only difference was, that with his dad, you couldn't smell the impending violence, you could feel its approach; just as deadly and all encompassing as a descending tornado.
If he closed his eyes, Jason could still see his father pacing back and forth, his eyes as cold as the stone statue in front of Jason's school. His dad waved his fist in their faces and they had sat, at the table, petrified with fear. When his father stopped in front of him, Jason had almost passed out from fright. He had felt like a mouse that had been caught in a steel-jawed trap while going after a piece of cheese. There had been no escaping what followed.
* * *
His father came home early that day and found everyone standing around the kitchen waiting for supper. Only, Jason's mom hadn't finished preparing supper.
She had taken Nicky to get his polio vaccine and was late getting home. As a result, the roast wasn't cooked by the time his dad arrived home from his dental office. That was all that it had taken for him to fly into a blinding rage.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Taming The Dragon Series by Helen Webster. Copyright © 2016 Helen Webster. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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