I was four

my mother had been gone for more than a year now, I’d endured a children’s home where older boys would piss their beds then make me swap stinky sheets to escape a beating.

Instead I’d get their beating for trying to tell on them.

I learned silence there.

Then my dad hired a housekeeper who brought in her kids then an indolent husband.

If I could see that man now I’d still want to swing a punch, he seemed to hate me and worse, he taught me to hate.

I was four, would piss my bed to lie there in terror of the morning and the punishments he would devise.

It started with ‘you’ve been naughty and have to drink boiled rat’ years later I learned this was a stock cube in hot water, but then it was a fearful brew.

I fought, ran to hide and then he had justification to beat me.

Then one day defiant I drank it all, spat it back at him, that game was over.

Then i was made to stand silent in the hallway with a balaclava on backwards.

I got too good at that.

I could sense him, sense his punches coming and feint away to lessen the bruise.

He began stacking me up with coats, hats, shoes.

I held them, if one fell, he could beat me because I was weak & worse a bedwetter.

Then bags of potatoes, a steaming kettle.

My little arms ached, scalded but I would not, could not give in.

The smells of those times, wet woollen winter coats, other people’s heads, damp potatoes, being tied up, trapped in small places still all haunt my adult life.

I know why I’m claustrophobic now, cannot stand people leaning on me, entering too close to my body space.

Touch my shoulder when I’m not looking and I jump.

This frightens people and I wonder if it frightens them as much as it does me.

I could not tell my father then or now.

My dad was remote then, working hard to support his family and theirs and I’d already learned silence: what happened if i spoke up.

I learned that telling the truth had consequences.

That adults were not kind people who handed out violence.

My mum was gone and I didn’t know where.

All I had of her were a few memories and none of those were precious either. Many years later she reached out to me, wanting a loving, good son.

Didn’t understand that her leaving had consequences for me, wanted only peace, forgiveness for herself and I wanted to give that, only those weren’t the lessons taught me by her absence.

She left again.

I haven’t met my bully, don’t even know if he’s still alive, wouldn’t know what to say to him, how to behave.

There’s a school of thought that says I must forgive, let go of the pain. Another closer to my heart wants revenge, a good kicking given.

Maybe this will do it instead, an outing:

Mr. Beattie you abused & beat up repeatedly a four-year-old child who needed love and care.

Whatever happened to you i hope at some point you felt shame for this.

Neil Benbow

©neilbenbow2026