Four years ago a good writer took a body of work he had written and gave it to a small publisher in Scotland. That company slid into history but thanks to one of its editors, Nic Wilkinson, and an exceptional young illustrator, Rachael Gator, that body of work was given life.
‘I Am Dead’ is not an easy poem to read because the subject matter is too uncomfortable for most people. Child abuse affects so many people from all walks of life and it takes an exceptional writer, visionary editor and a gifted illustrator to handle it correctly. When Insomnia took the bold step of publishing it a few people held their breath and wondered just what the reaction would be. Three years on the subject is still raw but it is time to publish it again, even if it is just online so it might do some more good. We are grateful to Rachael Gator for allowing us to use her original sketches and we hope that you take the time to read the poem in full.
When I was born my parents told me that they would love me, take care of me because I was special and their little girl.
I didn’t want for anything, I can remember snuggling between them in the morning, the smell of them both surrounding and filling my senses, warm and comforting I could feel the love they had for me.
(c) Rachael Gator
When I was very small I got sick, for days mommy and daddy stayed by my hospital bed, I can remember looking down at my arms and seeing tubes and wires connecting me to monitors and regulators that kept me alive.
I am dead, that is a fact not a statement.
You will ask me if I felt pain.
As I lay in my bed I could hear the sounds of the house, the creaks and the groans, the third stair from the top let out a chilling complaint whenever somebody stepped on it.
If I managed to stay awake long enough, and listened hard enough, I could make out the noises coming out of the front room. Mommy and daddy would be listening to the television, or playing music, but at the weekend they would invite friends around and I could hear their laughter and fun, delicious smells would seep through the floor and fill my room with mouth watering sensations.You will ask me if I felt pain.
You may ask if it was sudden.
(c) Rachael Gator
When I was five the monsters would come for me, they would wait until the house was quiet, the stair would object to their weight, signalling that they were coming, I would close my eyes really tight and pray they would go away.
They would scratch and paw me, hurting me inside and out, the darkness giving them a mask to hide behind.
You will ask me if I felt pain.
You may ask if it was sudden.
The pain lasted for years, unspoken and unseen.
My parents would argue when I lay in bed praying that the monsters wouldn’t come. They waited until they thought I couldn’t hear and then put on some music to mask the words, but they knew the monsters were real and couldn’t do anything to help me.
Once or twice I heard mommy crying, she begged daddy to help me but he told her to ‘Shut up, you stupid bitch’.
I am dead, that is a fact not a statement.
You will ask me if I felt pain.
You may ask if it was sudden.
The pain lasted for years, unspoken and unseen.
I remember my eighth birthday, mommy left. Daddy came upstairs to my room and sat down on the bed and cried, he hugged me and told me mommy didn’t love us anymore.
He held me in his arms and told me I must be strong, that I was special and he would love me enough for both of them.
I didn’t cry, I didn’t ask why, deep down I knew it was because the monsters had taken her.
I am dead, that is a fact not a statement.
You will ask me if I felt pain.
You may ask if it was sudden.
The pain lasted for years, unspoken and unseen.
What killed me? My innocence.
I am waiting to be reborn, to be loved again.
When mommy had gone daddy would let me sleep in their bed when I got cold, or felt afraid, the monsters didn’t come when I lay in that big bed, they didn’t claw or hurt me, they didn’t paw at my face or mark me. Daddy protected me just by being there.
When mommy left she took my smile, she took my happiness and made daddy cry. I could lie in bed and hear him sobbing downstairs in the darkness he surrounded himself with, the house quiet and still.
(c) Rachael Gator
I am dead, that is a fact not a statement.
You will ask me if I felt pain.
You may ask if it was sudden.
The pain lasted for years, unspoken and unseen.
What killed me? My innocence.
I am waiting to be reborn, to be loved again.
One night daddy lifted me into his bed and lay looking at me, his eyes full of love and tenderness; I was daddy’s special girl.
He stroked my face and kissed me gently, for the first time since mommy left he smiled warmly and ran his fingers through my hair.
I was glad daddy smiled, I was glad I was special enough to make him smile.
Then he took off my nightie and he touched me. It felt uncomfortable and I got scared, but daddy told me it was going to be all right, that he was only touching me because I was special and there was nothing to be afraid of, that all good girls were touched by their daddy’s.
I am dead, that is a fact not a statement.
You will ask me if I felt pain.
You may ask if it was sudden.
The pain lasted for years, unspoken and unseen.
What killed me? My innocence.
I am waiting to be reborn, to be loved again.
Did the monsters kill me?
The monsters did not kill me, you did.