The Joke of Trauma

Tell tale signs of an imminent beating play out.
“Bammm!”
Upstairs, back bathroom window slams shut.
Only 2'x15" in size and located at chest height, its resonance unmistakable.

It’s better to beat your kids in the back of the house. Then, those hapless dog walkers innocently strolling down our wide stretch of sidewalk, in a populous, suburban neighborhood near an open, preserve of land, won’t hear the screams.

Brick-like footsteps fall on the second story floor. That breathy, menacing voice beckoning us to come forward and collect what is rightfully ours. “Careee-ahhhhh!!” “Caaaassidy!!!!” “Collllllin!!!” booms with each footfall.

A house filled with names that begin with the letter C. A sturdy, cookie cutter design containing other c-names too — crazy, chaos, confounding, conflict, coercion, crying, confrontation, commanding, criticized, controlled.

“Groooooan,” go the wooden doors when a heavy, mahogany dresser opens.
It’s where our father’s black, leather belt, lay curled like a sleeping viper.
“Creeeeeak,” says the middle dresser, as the venomous serpent awakens.

Three children stand huddled, pressed into a marble sink, cowering in a corner of that small, back bathroom. “What…