Jute’s Stories

Long ago I bound him. Chained him in the darkest recesses of my heart. Forced into an ironbound trunk in the corner of my mind and locked away his ability to rend me as he once could. Forgotten, left to languish alone in the darkness.

But every once in awhile I hear the rattle of his chains and I’m taken back to a time before his banishment.

I didn’t know his true form in the beginning. After all he bore the handsome face and charming manner of his archangel namesake. That’s the nature of demons though. They use this guise to trick you and lure you close. Their soothing words and devious ways only serve to draw you near enough to allow them to plunge their talons deep into your chest and rip out part of your still beating heart. They leave enough for it to grow again and through their deception they convince you that it was not their intent to savage you.

Michael was my demon and at first I loved him with an innocent heart. Later I gave my love desperately, always wary of when the torture would begin. He was a master at it and what makes me the angriest now when I look back upon those days is how the man I love now sometimes pays for the demon’s sins.

I was not good enough for Michael. I wasn’t pretty enough or classy enough and with sly digs and subtle hints he let me know. Chipping away at my fragile self-confidence. He kept his relationship with me hidden away as if I were somehow some dirty secret. Something about me drew him back time and again, only to once again reinforce my unworthiness.

Eventually I walked away. I gained the strength to stop the cycle and bound the destructive feelings I had for him. But the anger still lingers.

I had made a conscious decision to view him this way, his beautiful face hiding a hideous souless secret self. I did this because it gave me the strength to leave him. If I saw his human side it allowed him to pull me back to the hell that was our relationship.

But time has passed.

They say that forgiveness is good for the soul, so maybe it’s time to exorcise the demon. I’d like the scars on my heart to fade and allow the growth another has nurtured. Perhaps by forgiving him I will be able to leave behind his destructive legacy. If I continue to harbor these images of him I only perpetuate his damage.

Logically, I know that Michael was the tormented soul and every wound he placed on me was one he also bore. Knowing that he tortured himself more than he did me, leaves me stunned at the depth of his unhappiness.

Forgiving him does not mean I want him back in my life at all. It does not mean I condone what he did to me or what he likely continues to do to himself and others. It does not mean I wish in anyway to have him participate in my life. Rather than free the demon in the basement of my heart to ravage again, I exorcise him from it to free myself.

So Michael, wherever you are, I forgive your tortured soul for the damage you caused me and wish that someday you will find the way to forgive yourself.

I lay on my back in the grass, fingers toward the sky tracing the cloud shaped dragon. The warm sun on my skin made me feel lazy and sleepy, the grass was soft and sweet scented. I smiled to myself, content.

My parents had bundled us all in the car and drove the 7 mile trip up to my uncle’s farm. Technically he was my step-uncle since he was my father’s brother. And although dad was the only father I’d known, my blood didn’t carry any of his genes.

A gentle nicker brought me back to the focus of my journey. I had jumped at the chance to go up to his farm. Not only was it a wonderful break from the everyday drudgery, but my uncle had recently started boarding several horses. With all of the passion contained in my 11 year old heart I loved those animals. I don’t know where or why I first came to love them, but they were the focus of my deepest heart’s desire.

Powerful animals, sleek and smooth, they were beautiful in motion or at rest and I wanted more than anything to have one of my own. Since my family was poor and there seemed little likelihood that would ever become a reality, I settled for the next best thing. My uncle’s horses vicariously became mine.

Hearing them nearby I stood up from the grass and picked up the small piece of rope I’d brought with me. I had cut it from the dangling portion of my mother’s outdoor clothesline. About six feet long, I figured it was long enough for me to use for what I had planned.

I am not quite sure where I got the idea; perhaps one too many readings of my favorite childhood novel, The Black Stallion.

When I look back now, I’m both appalled and amazed. I was a skinny child. Long and lanky and looking forever malnourished. It was years before I would grow into the well muscled form I’d later have.

I took the thin white rope and carefully began to knot it into some semblance of a halter. I was familiar with horse’s tack from spending time with a friend who had one. After a couple of false starts I had a reasonable facsimile of one and followed the sound to the beautiful beasts.

As I approached they didn’t move away. They accepted my presence among them, moving closer to nibble gently at my pockets, lipping for the treats they knew I sometimes carried.

I ran my hands over the sleek hide of a beautiful palomino, moving up to his head and slipping my makeshift halter over his nose. Once I had adjusted the thin rope, I grabbed a handful of his mane and vaulted upward. He started to move a bit at the feel of my weight and it only took a moment for me to adjust myself legs spread wide on his broad back. I leaned over and patted him grabbing the makeshift reins and urging him forward with my heels.

He broke into a trot and a click of my tongue urged him out of the jarring gait into the smooth rocker-like motion of a gallop. I laughed aloud in glee, urging him onward, speeding across the meadow, leaning low next to his neck, inhaling the warm sweaty scent of the powerful animal.

Nothing in life was this good! The wind in my face and my body working in motion with this beast, I felt powerful and free.

Years later I would marvel at doing this. That small rope really had no control over that powerful animal. I love horses, but I know they can be dangerous animals. Their size and power could easily have seriously injured me. But I had believed I could do it, and so I did.

Sometimes I long for that innocence of self-belief and I smile when I remember that child.

The pain in my arms was unbearable. Intense shooting pains from the burden I carried. On I stumbled, trying to run but unable to move much faster than a shuffling trot, the terrified five year old child in my arms clinging desperately to my neck, my slight 10 year old frame barely able to sustain his weight. I ignored my arms and trotted on. Splashes of red from the open wounds on his feet dotting my legs as I ran. Later I would see spatters in the dirt like a demented breadcrumb trail marking our path. But for the moment all was oblivious except the need to help my brother.

As the oldest of 5 children at the time (later another one made the total 6) I was the ‘responsible’ one. My mother, driven a bit mad by the burden of caring for so many children at a young age, had gratefully granted our request to go down to the river, snatching at the opportunity for a moment of peace.

The Mississippi has a beauty all it’s own, it has peaceful and seemingly slow moving waters which hide deadly undercurrents. But the surface of the river is placid and calm. Even at a young age we knew the beauty of the river hid deadliness. I kept that in mind as we walked the quarter mile from our house to the river edge, sheparding the three children with me, vigilant for as we followed the streets. Our feet were bare and the asphalt road was hot, so we walked along the edge in the dust, our trail of footprints

Andalusia, a romantic Spanish name for a sleepy river town in Illinois. Long before play groups and video games, we found amusement in roaming the countryside or playing games of make believe. Our goal that day was the riverbank and after a winding walk we reached our destination.

A sleepy summer day, the four of us gathered rocks and amused ourselves by splashing them in the river. My six year old brother was the ringleader, gleefully hurling stones as far as his arm would take them, cackling in delight at the splash as they hit the water’s surface. He was quickly emulated by the other two. At five and three the pair were not as adept at throwing, but at that age, it’s all about doing the same thing as your ‘big’ brother.

The sun sparkled on the rocky bank of the river and as we clamored about on the shore, we never even noticed the glitter held a menace. The peacefulness of the day was shattered by a shriek from the next to youngest boy. My five year old brother was crying in pain and I
rushed to see what had happened. Shards of broken glass gleamed as the sunlight hit them and a pool of red began to form where my brother stood. Both feet had been ripped open by the jagged glass.

For any child it would have been a problem, but for this one it was potentially deadly. My brother had a condition that impeded proper blood clotting. He wasn’t technically a hemophiliac but a simple cut on him would bleed excessively for sometimes as along as an hour.

All I could think of was we had to get home. I had him wrap his legs around my waist, his arms around my neck and I began to run home. Even though he tried to help ease the burden, I had to hold him with my arms. His size more than half my own the burden was awkward and
heavy. At first I thought about the end, how I had to get home, but a momentary despair swamped me. The quarter mile seemed forever and my arms began to ache. I wasn’t sure I could hold him, but there was no other choice. He couldn’t walk and I had to get him home as fast as possible.

One foot in front of the next. If I concentrated on one step at a time I could do it.

At the time, that’s all I could think about, but in later years I marveled at the faith that five year old had in me. After his initial cry he was solemnly silent. He told me many years later that he knew I’d take care of him. That I always had.

We were about 300 yards from the white house that represented salvation and I didn’t think I could go on further. I almost cried in frustration, but I knew I had to try.

Just then a car came by and a young man hopped out. Being from a small town, everyone knew everyone else and I recognized him as a teenager I’d seen quite often hanging out around the local downtown area.

“God, what happened.” He quickly took in my blood spattered form and my precious burden and moved to load us in the car. The last few yards to the house were in his Chevy and once parked he gathered up my brother and bounded up the steps to our front door. We rushed into
the kitchen where my mom quickly assessed the situation. She grabbed some ice and towels and wrapped my brother’s feet. As she did she explained the ice was to help slow the bleeding.

No time was wasted and I was left there at the house with the rest of the children while the two of them hurried off to the doctor 14 miles away.

Later he returned to us, stitched up, sucking on a sweet treat the doctor had given him for being a brave boy.

My arms hurt for days, but I had learned something invaluable. Things might seem impossible, but in desperate situations, you still have to try and one foot in front of the next is sometimes the only way to go on.