I have been given an excellent piece written by a friend on an evil, cruel episode in her young life - at the age of 7 - but unfortunately I can't offer it here until 10th May. She has put an embargo on it until then.

It was written for a University Course and if it was posted here, she would be disqualified. (The University searches the internet to check if their students' work has been plaguarised.)

Britscot, please adapt your friend's piece and post when you can, and better still, post something of your own in the meantime.

Therein lies my problem, Lost!

I am well aware that I simply do not have the imagination to "create" a story - all my jottings have been reflections on true life, so I will just sit back and observe whilst the creative souls amongst us tell a tale or two.

As is exemplified in WITTCL, true life is good, Britscot. So please, just tell us what you know.

My fifteen year old sister got stuck babysitting me a lot. She was ten years older and I adored her. Carol’s lipstick was in a gold tube and smelled like orange candy. Her clock radio was always set to WLS a Chicago rock station, she had swirly handwriting, and lots of friends.

One Saturday she had spent most of the afternoon teaching me to play Heart and Soul on our upright piano. She taught me the soprano part and she played the bouncy base with me—we shared the piano bench. Then she taught me the base line and how to merge the two—I was thrilled she was spending so much time with me and loved it, so I worked at playing the tune all afternoon.

Later that night, after dinner, she pulled me aside, “Lee Anna, go play that piece I taught you as loud as you can—five times in a row.” If she’d only told me why she was having me play it, I’d have kept my mouth shut. She should have told me the whole story, but she didn’t.

After I’d banged the song out five times, I went looking for her. I looked around the empty basement, walls and ceiling painted red, where we watched TV. I knocked on my brother’s bedroom door. No answer, so I looked in…dark and empty. I checked the Pepto-Bismol pink bedroom Carol and I shared….nothing. Both bathrooms were empty… I looked in the kitchen, spilled sugar crunched under my shoes. I wandered into the living room and asked my parents, “Where’s Carol?” Dad looked up from his Hoard’s Dairyman magazine and mom, who’d been napping in front of the heater vent, set her paper aside.

Immediately I knew I’d made a mistake. My dad roared through the house yelling for her, his step-daughter. My older brother was also gone, but nobody ever cared about that. Dad yelled for my mother and I to get our coats and get in the car. I was tying my shoes, crying and he was already in the car honking the horn over and over, like a broken car alarm. My mother yelled to me, “Hurry!” I was afraid to ask where we were going.

Dad pulled into the high school parking lot. We all went to the gymnasium entrance. I’d never been in a dance, I was five. I was stunned by the loud music. “Hey, look at that little kid,” I heard someone say. I followed my dad. He was a big man, thick but not tall. He wore his usual black wool overcoat and dark gray fedora. He stalked through the hot gym, looking for Carol. Colored lights flashed through the dark. My dad held my hand and dragged me through the dance floor.I couldn’t see where my dad was pulling me because everyone else was so tall.

He spotted my sister and grabbed her by the arm, “Get your coat. We are going home,” he yelled at her, in front of everyone. All the way home, he yelled. We cried in the back seat. My mother said nothing. We got home and I ran downstairs…afraid. The yelling from upstairs got louder--only my dad’s voice. Then I heard a crash and my mom’s voice. I ran up the stairs and sat on the top step and peered out into the kitchen.

My dad held my sister by the shoulders, several inches off the floor. “You will never sneak out of this house again.” He hit her head against the wall with every third word. My mom stood by and cried into a Kleenex--watching.

I ran into the kitchen and yelled, “What are you doing?” My dad turned and looked at me and my mom grabbed me and got me out of there. She took me upstairs and put me in bed and told me never to talk about what I’d seen. “But why was dad hitting Carol?”

“Your father loves her and is worried about her.”

“Huh? Then why’s he hitting her.”

“Lee Anna, we’re not going to talk about this anymore. Go to sleep.”

My sister’s eye was black and swollen the next day. She went to school and no one asked her a single thing about what had happened to her—not one of her seven teachers asked if she was okay.

I was sexually molested by my uncle (my Dad's brother) when I was 12 years old. That was bad enough, but after the incident he kept asking me if I felt "dirty" or "bad" and that I should feel those things. It really messed with my head (and more so later in my life, I think, than I realized in my own relationships.)

On top of that, what did my parents do about it when I told them? (I told them a couple of days later; it was terribly hard to do.) So, what did they do? NOTHING! My Dad said to me, "Just make sure your Grandma never finds out (his mother). It would destroy her." WHAT? Of course, at the time I just went along with whatever my parents said.

I have forgiven my Mom .. she confronted him years later (my uncle) and she apologized to me many times over for how it was all handled. I lost my Mother to cancer 16 years ago; I'm grateful we worked through all of that and other things.

My uncle said he cannot be held responsible because he was an alcoholic then (recovering now) and that made him a different person. Is he/was he evil? Is/Was my Dad evil? Or are their actions just evil? My father and I no longer have a relationship, haven't spoken in years, for other reasons besides the above. He is an alcoholic .. has that made his personality/character 'evil' or was he born that way? Did his childhood make him that way? I don't know. I just know it's best to stay away and keep my children away from him.

I never really understood the pain she must have been in. I'm not sure we were allowed to know.

A child just happens upon life and doesn't ask why. Because I said so seemed like a good enough reason coming from my mother.

My brother and I stayed with my grandmother a lot growing up. We even slept with grandma in her bed. I remember helping her cook and helping with the garden. That is all she ever did, cooking and gardening. I adored her and loved being with her. My fondest childhood memories are the times I spent with grandma.

My grandfather was very short. Guess that's why I am only 4'11". Now that I think about it, he was shorter than I am today. He seemed larger than life. He didn't seem to be around much. Always working I guess. Come to think of it, I don't know where he slept.

Saturday morning cartoons were the best at her house. We would play on the floor in front of the TV for hours.

One morning I heard yelling. My brother and I were alone playing in the bedroom. The yelling became louder. We looked out the door into the hallway and saw my uncle fly by attacking my grandfather. My uncle was much larger than him & he was on top of grandpa choking him.

My grandmother was screaming and crying. My brother and I hid in the bedroom scared to death. I think grandma closed the door. I think I remember my uncle yelling at grandpa to never hit her again.

We were never told what happened. We didn't ask.

I don't remember much about my grandfather. If we were in the car with him he would stop at this place. We mostly sat in the car, alone for awhile, seemed like forever. A few times he took us inside. He sat at a long counter drinking something. He made us sit & wait at a table away from him. It was kind of dark in there. He must have been thirsty to stop and make us wait like that.

This was just the way things were. We just happened upon life and never asked why.

My grandmother got really sick. She lived with us for awhile. Sometimes we would sit in a hospital for hours not knowing what was happening. My mother took care of her at home until she passed away.

She died at 54.

She seemed so old to me at the time.

54? Dear Lord, now I understand.