Please just save me from this darkness. Please just save me from this darkness.

Last night I dreamt about when I was a kid.
I wouldn't say it was a nightmare, but on reflection, it's not the kind of dream that gives anything close to a smile when I think back upon it.

I can't say I had the happiest of upbringing. My parents obviously loved me, but in a way that I could never understand.
Thinking back, I don't think I can ever remember a time when either of them told me that they loved me. It wasn't something that bothered me, in fact, I didn't know any different until I befriended a kid when we moved back to the UK from South Africa.

I would always call for him on the way to school and he was never, ever ready. There would always be the same routine of me being let in by his mum and then led into the kitchen, where I would sit while they shoveled down their cornflakes. They would all be sitting around the table in their sleeping gear, my friend, his younger brother and his mum. I just didn't get the whole 'eating breakfast together' scenario as it was so alien to me.
When my brother and I got up for school, we were never allowed downstairs unless we were dressed. That was the family rule! If we wanted any breakfast then we had to make it ourselves because my dad was usually rushing out the door on his way to work and my mum was far too busy getting herself ready, doing her hair, her make up etc, to make us anything. If we didn't make anything for ourselves, then we would simply go without.

Sometimes at my friends house, his mum would make me some breakfast. She would ask if I'd already had something, quoting the old "breakfast is the most important meal of the day" thingy.
When they were dressed, my friend, his brother and I would prepare to walk to school, which was no more than 5 minutes away. But they would never get out of the house without a kiss from their mum and a "Love you". They would always scoff at their mother's remarks, as kids of that age often do, but secretly, I was always jealous of having somebody say that.

The only time I can remember my mum saying anything about me or my brother being loved, was when she was explaining why we would get physically punished by my dad. She would say that he only did it because he loved us and wanted us to grow up in the 'right way'.

My folks seem to live by routine and this was nothing different. There would be minor differences, but the general course of action would follow a familiar pattern that would eventually have me living in almost fear of them, especially my dad.

The main trouble maker would be my brother, but he was nothing more than a kid who got into a few scrapes. A typical boy.... doing boy things. I wasn't so innocent, but as Pandy was older than me, I think I must have been growing up, learning from his mistakes as well as my own.
When something went wrong, the routine kicked in. This would involve what my parents came to call ' a family meeting'.
We had many of these.
This 'meeting' would consist of my mum asking all the questions, doing all the pointing and making all the judgments. My dad would be there, but would say nothing. It was basically an 'own up to it' or face the consequences dilemma.
Owning up to something would mean punishment....physical punishment, coupled with either being grounded or priviledges taken away for a certain time, such as pocket money, or both....or all three.
If the grilling from my mum resulted in no admission from either of us, then my brother and I would be sent up to our rooms to await the punishment. This would be in the form of my dad beating us with....well....anything that was within his reach.
I would always be the first to be 'dealt with'. Not for any other reason other than my bedroom was the nearest one to the top of the stairs.
In that house we lived in, I knew every creak of the stairs. From the sound of my dad's footsteps and the noises from those stairs, I could tell exactly how close he was from my bedroom door. Those sounds alone were enough to make me shiver and quake with fear.
His weapon of choice was his shoe, his slipper, his leather belt, books, toys, anything that would deliver the message that they wanted to drive home, which was basically that bad kids get punished.

I can't remember how long these beatings went on for, but for me as a kid, they felt like forever.
And once again, the routine would kick in. With every stroke, he would ask for an admission of guilt and when it wasn't forthcoming, he would carry on. With each strike, his face would get redder and his questioning of who did whatever would get more and more determined. I don't know how he knew when to stop, but I was always thankful that he finally realised that I wasn't to blame.
But with the relief that came from no more beatings for me, also came the terrible sound of hearing my brother cry with pain as he received the same treatment as I'd just endured.
It was awful hearing him sob.
It was almost unbearable hearing the sound of whatever my dad used striking his bare arse.


Most of the time it was Pandy who had done 'whatever' had been done, but that didn't make him any worse than any other kid growing up. It's all part of growing up, it's what kids do.
It go to a point where I would admit to doing things and take my dad's fierce, raging punishment, just to save myself from hearing my brothers squeals.

When I left home at 17, I walked out of their front door with the last of my things and vowed to myself that I wouldn't be anything like they were as parents to me.

This dream I had, well....it bought a lot of it back. But now, as an adult, I see things in a different perspective. I could never condone what they did to me and my brother as children under their roof.
And even though my childhood wasn't anything to write home about, I feel like I'm a better person for having suffered under such a strict ruling because I can see exactly the type of person I would never want to become.