Some have only good memories of childhood, some have both good and bad, and then some have only bad memories.
I'm one of those unfortunate ones who have only bad memories. The earliest memory I have is getting punished for spilling milk on the kitchen floor.
Some might wonder why didn't my mom help me. She would have, but her fate was worse than mine. She was not only going through physical and mental abuse but was also struggling with the fact of how unfortunate she was to have met her husband, Sean, my father.
My dad had gone to Russia for a week with his friends during his college days and had apparently loved the girls there so much that he learned Russian and decided to find a bride from there.
However, it all remained a dream until his second marriage broke down, and he was facing a lonely life in a two-bedroom house near a small town in North Dakota.
He then decided to make his long-held dream come true and scraping whatever money he could, off he went to Moscow to find a bride. Armed with an American passport, a 6'2 body, long wavy hair, and knowledge of the Russian language, he prowled the bars, clubs, and pubs all over Moscow until he finally found a girl he instantly liked.
She was walking to school when he first saw her from his apartment and for the next four days, he watched her every morning and evening walk down the street.
The first time Dad spoke to her, he asked her for directions to a shop he already knew and engaged her in small talk about the city and its culture. Slowly and deliberately, he made sure she became fixated on his masculine body and American charm.
After about twenty days, he told her that he was going back to the U.S., but could arrange for her to join him there if she wanted. My father, of course, sold her the whole deal: Big cars, huge houses, shopping malls, etc. She was enthralled and jumped at the prospect of an American life.
When he saw that she was ready, he went back to the U.S., arranged a tourist visa and tickets, and told her to catch the next flight. The reality she experienced on arrival was different from the dreams he had woven in her head.
Dad was living in an old house, way off the main road, and there were no big cars, just a Ford truck, and no glitzy shopping malls. It all hit her hard and she wanted to go back, but he charmed her into staying -- a mistake she came to regret.
She was under the impression that he would marry her as soon as she arrived, but Dad told her, deceitfully as it turned out, that since she was only 18 she couldn't get married as the minimum age was 21. Then she thought he would help her get the visa extended, but he kept on giving excuses.
She thought about running away several times, but since she didn't know anybody, spoke little English and had heard all sorts of stories from Dad about how the illegals were treated in prisons, she couldn't bring herself to take the final step.
All in all, she was at his mercy and he knew it. Within a year, she was carrying me and living more like a slave than a wife.
That's how the journey and the misfortune of my mom, Natasha, began.
Surprisingly, the earliest memory I have of my mother is not of the beatings, the screaming, and the abuse, but of her sitting on a chair with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap in the backyard.
I remember her red hair falling over her shoulders, her deep blue eyes looking at me and her nose ring and gold anklets shining in the sun.
"Do you miss Russia?" I asked her, sitting opposite her.
"Yes, a lot," she said, adjusting her gray, knee-length pleated skirt.
"Any relatives still there?"
"There are your two aunts and an uncle."
"You must have enjoyed there?"
"A lot. We used to cycle across the town, play volleyball, and dance to Russian music. The school was fun, too."
"Were you good in studies?"
"No, just average. I was a good swimmer though. There's a lake near our house and all of us used to swim in it."
"I guess they miss you, too?"
"Yes, they do. Will take you there someday. Now let's go inside and cook lunch for your dad," she said, taking a deep breath and tucking in her white sleeveless shirt.
But that's the only memory I have of childhood where she's smiling and happy. All the others are of shame and pain.
My father had a more or less set schedule. He would go to work at the garage by eight in the morning, come home for lunch, and then be back again at home by evening.
Most of his Saturday nights were spent playing poker at home with his two friends Jason and Matt.
Since our house was so far away from everything, Mom and I remained stuck day and night inside the house. Dad would take us to town maybe once in three months and even then not to the town that was near our house, but to a town that was far away from our place.
My father wasn't even keen to send me to school and only reluctantly changed his mind, but took me out after just a few years, so all I learned was to read and write.
Even there it was Dad who used to drop and pick me up from school, with Mom staying stuck inside the house.
I don't remember anything about school, friends, or playing any game or sport.
What I do remember is how my father used to beat me with his belt, steel rod, or shoes for the smallest of mistakes. What's more shameful is that he continued to beat me even when I was 18 years old.
I was tall with broad shoulders, although not as tall as him, but the fact that I was nearly grown up or that Mom could see me standing there with my jeans and underwear pulled down to my ankles with my cock and balls clearly visible didn't bother him.
To some, all this might seem barbaric, but it was nothing compared to what Mom had to endure.
