Warning:

This piece contains descriptive discussions of childhood trauma, including references to child abuse, physical abuse, emotional and mental abuse, alcohol abuse, animal abuse, and the silencing of individuals seeking help. 

Reader discretion is advised, particularly for those who may find these topics sensitive or triggering.

Growing up, there were a few things I loved: writing, reading, and stuffed animals. I found comfort in stuffed animals and kept every single one I ever received. My closet didn’t have doors; just a rod with clothes hanging above my stuffed-animal collection. I didn’t have many clothes; most were pulled from bargain bins from time to time, but I made sure to take care of what I had.

I would sit on the floor and spend hours playing with my stuffed animals. I had a pig with a nose ring and tattoos; he was always the villain in whatever story I created that day. Usually trying to kidnap my cute Betty Boop in a red dress doll.

I had two stuffed animals I treasured above all, one of which was a white fluffy bunny.

For Easter one year, I received a real white bunny as a pet. My brother received a silver one. They were both beautiful with bright, beady red eyes. I remember being shocked that we got bunnies. I hadn’t asked for one, but somehow my grandparents gave us two. I was ecstatic, but also fearful. My father’s rage didn’t stop at inanimate objects in the home. It found us, too, and based on history, the animals were never safe either.

We ended up taking the bunnies home. There was a small hatchery in the back where we kept them. We visited them often, but weren’t really allowed to play with them.

Months went by, and the bunnies remained in the enclosure outside. Honestly, it was the safest place for them, away from the danger that lurked only steps away.

And then it happened. One day I was told my bunny had died, less than a year after we got them. I was told she had frozen to death outside.

California weather has its own version of “cold,” meaning we’re in jackets and gloves once it hits the mid‑50s. I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t being given the full story.

I remember asking questions, none of which were answered. Both bunnies died in cold weather? How? I wasn’t permitted to ask. I wasn’t permitted to see them. One day, they were there. The next, they were gone.

Even if I had pushed, I wouldn’t have been told anything. I was mostly ignored; just a gnat in their world. I can not say with confidence that my father killed them, but I can say they did not die in 50-degree weather. 

As a consolation prize, I was given a stuffed white bunny.

The stuffed white bunny sat atop a mountain of stuffed animals. At one point, I probably had around 50 stuffed animals in total. As I mentioned, I never got rid of any of them. If I wasn’t writing or reading, I was with them, hiding away from my parents.

Then one night, it happened again. Another fight. I didn’t have a clock, but I remember looking at my window. It was completely dark outside, so I’d guess it was around midnight. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening intently.

I heard my mother’s shouts, full of pain and tears. My Father’s shouts were slurred and indistinguishable. My dad had stopped for a case of beer after work, and he had been slamming them all night. I had eaten my dinner quickly and gone straight to my room. I hadn’t come out except for a single bathroom trip. Knowing a case of beer in my father’s hands never led to anything good.

The shouts grew louder, followed by a crash as something, or someone, hit a wall. More shouting. I couldn’t make out what the fight was about this time. More crying and pleading from my mother.

My room was across from my brother’s at the end of the hallway, next to the garage. My younger brother and sister shared the room beside mine. Their room was across from the bathroom and next to my parents’ room.

Note: In this memory, I don’t recall my sister. Either she was with my mother or she hadn’t been born yet.

From the crashes and the way things slammed against doors and walls, I could tell my father was on a violent rampage in the kitchen and dining room of our one‑story home. Then I heard it; the slam of the door as my mother ran outside. This time, he didn’t follow her. Instead, I heard his footsteps getting closer, heavy and uneven.

He was coming for me.

I moved as fast as my feet could manage. I glanced at my bedroom window and consider escaping from there. It’s the same window I had jumped out of many times to escape his hands and beatings. But only this time, I did not have the time to climb up, open the blinds, open the window, and get out. If my mother wasn’t there to take the beating, it was my turn.

Instinctively, I turned toward my stuffed animals. I made a split‑second decision and dove into the pile, covering my body. Sitting upright, I pulled a dress, still on a hanger, over my head. There I was, in the ridiculous position of hiding inside the drape of the hanging dress and waist down, buried in a grave of stuffed animals.

My door flew open. Like a childhood monster, he stormed inside, shouting for me, looking around. He flipped on the light and shouted my name again. I listened as he knocked everything from my dressers onto the floor. I stopped breathing as he got close, checking under my desk and searching the corners of my room.

Do. Not. Breathe. I told myself.

Another crash echoed through my room, and I knew that if he found me hiding like this, the beating would be far worse than usual.

I’m so stupid. I should have just taken the beating. My thoughts raced in my mind. 

No one came to save me. What felt like several minutes passed as I sat there motionless with my stuffed animals and dress. My mind begged that he would not push back the clothing as I knew I would be revealed. Breathless in my fabric coffin. I took shallow breaths until stars formed in my vision from lack of air.

And then, he was gone.

My Father must have assumed I ran out through the garage. Suddenly, as my hearing returned from its deafening ring, I recognized the sound of my siblings crying.

I couldn’t just sit there.

I crawled out of my hiding spot. My white bunny toppled over along with the others as I emerged. I stepped over my belongings: my toys, pictures, books, and the small stereo my Nana had given me. Everything was scattered, some things broken, others not.

I didn’t stop to assess the damage. I ran to my brother’s room and found my youngest brother, let’s call him “L”. “L” was huddled by a dresser but unharmed. My other brother was nowhere in sight. This was not unusual. While my brothers often took beatings of their own, my Father adored my brothers; on the other hand, I was just a burden. I was a weak female and therefore, disposable. 

I grabbed “L”, and we ran outside; no shoes, no jackets, just running.

I found my brother, we’ll call him “M” already by the car with my mother in the yard, scrambling away from my father as he chased her.

I got the “L” into the car. My mother jumped into the front seat.

Boom! My Father’s fist connected to the car.

BOOM. BOOM.

She fumbled with the keys.

BOOM.

The engine started.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The car jerked into reverse, tires screeching.

Only then did I realize my Father was further away. As we drove forward, I buckled my seatbelt and instructed my brothers to do the same.

I don’t remember much after that. We stayed the night at a Motel 6 as we always did. No one could know what was happening, so instead of seeking sanctuary at my grandparents or other family members, we stayed in dingy motels we could afford. This one is two cities away. It would be another day of school I would miss. My grades and attendance were awful in elementary school. A contributing factor as to why I fell asleep in class, on Motel 6 nights, I never slept. My father knew where we stayed; it was all we could afford, and he controlled the money. If he wanted to finish the fight, he could. Sometimes he did.

Most nights, I just watched the window, fearful of every shadow.

We parked our car out of view and walked to the room. I slept in the bed with my mom, my brothers in the other.

Time crawled.

These nights weren’t a solution, just a pause until the next event.

To this day, I still have many of my stuffed animals in a box. As I type this, the box sits about ten feet away. My husband knows how attached I am to them, so he built a solid wood box to keep them safe. These animals were more than toys; they once saved me. I cherish each animal and watch my children enjoy them. To them, they are just toys. As they should be. 

I still have my white bunny. It sits on a shelf in my room, watching over me to this day.

Unhealed,

Sis