Victim

By Darren Moxam

Victim is a novel that offers you insight into the lives of many different characters. Filled with emotion, it will certainly be a tearjerker

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781504993760

Darren Moxam

Darren Moxam is a Northwest London writer of relationship-based stories, inspiring quotes, plays, and poetry. His first book, Let My Soul Be Heard, is currently averaging five-star ratings. Website: www.darrenmoxam.com Twitter: d_nero02 Facebook: Darren Moxam / Author Darren Moxam E-mail: [e-mail]

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© 2015 Darren Moxam. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  04/23/2019

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9374-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9375-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9376-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

Contents

Acknowledgements

One

Sarah

Nathan

Lionel

Sheila

Nia

Hutton

Sarah

Lionel

Sarah

Hutton

Lionel

Hutton

Sarah

Sarah

Two

Sheila

Hutton

Sarah

Sheila

Adam

Sarah

Sarah

Hutton

Sheila

Adam

Sarah

Hutton

Sarah

Sheila

Sheila

Sheila

Lionel

Three

Nia

Nia

Lionel

Lionel

Nia

Nia

Lionel

Nia

Lionel

Lionel

Nia

Lionel

Lionel

Nia

Austen

Lionel

Nia

Lionel

Nia

Lionel

Nia

Nia

Nia

Lionel

Lionel

Four

Sarah

Shaniya

Hutton

Hutton

Hutton

Sarah

Nathan

Nathan

Nathan

Hutton

Sarah

Sarah

Nathan

Sarah

Sarah

Hutton

Sarah

Sarah

Hutton

Sarah

Nathan

Nathan

Hutton

Nathan

Sarah

Sheila

Five

Sheila

Larna

Larna

Larna

Adam

Larna

Adam

Larna

Sheila

Adam

Adam

Larna

Sheila

Larna

Sheila

Sheila

Sheila

Sheila

Sheila

The Lord’s Prayer

Why I Wrote the Book

About the Author

About the Book

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would personally like to thank my Lord Jesus Christ for giving me the ability to write, and although I am far from perfect, I hope to see you in all your perfect form one day.

Secondly I would like to thank all those who have supported my writing throughout the years and the publishers for making this all possible.

A special thank you to model/actor/writer Portia Freno (www.portiafreno.com), as well as Sheetal Anand for the constant proofreading

For further information, please visit www.darrenmoxam.com.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only

begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him

should not perish, but have everlasting life

—John 3:16, King James Version

ONE

‘One’s dignity may be assaulted, vandalized and cruelly mocked, but it can never be taken away unless it is surrendered.’ Michael J fox

Sarah

I NEVER THOUGHT I’d go through something like this; I never thought it was my portion. I always thought God had me, but now I admit to losing faith. I’ve prayed for my survival many times and for my husband to be restored, but as the violence escalates, I fear my prayers are getting lost within Nathan’s need for a drink. My husband used to be the kindest of men, holy and considerate. These were the major traits that drew me to him, but I was unaware of his dark cloud—a flesh-bound spirit that overpowers his true self-preservation. He simply becomes a different man. It’s as if an intruder dwells inside him, an unrecognisable spirit not of God. I’ve prayed so many times that we’ll make it through these dark hours. As it says in the Bible, ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding’ (Proverbs 3:5, King James Version). And I do trust in Him, but how much faith can a woman have? I’m scared for my life every time Nathan lays his hands on me, as he beats me into submission until I curl up like a little ball in the corner of our bedroom, crying my eyes out whilst he shouts obscenities at me.

We both came from a church background, and we eventually found each other in church. It was like love at first sight. Have you ever met someone, and based on first impressions, you knew that person would play a prominent role in your life? Well that’s how I felt about Nathan, and although he is strikingly handsome, that wasn’t what got me sprung on him. His innocence and mannerisms were endearing, and I know in my heart that, somewhere in him even now, that man I first met still exists. That’s probably why I fight so hard to get him back on track, to get us back on track. I know a part of him wants to change. I know in my heart God speaks to him. Sometimes in the early hours, I hear him praying in the bathroom for forgiveness, asking God to release him from his anger. But the temptation of the bottle hinders his judgement, and until he truly submits to God and not the bottle, as I’ve told him, he won’t be released from his pain. Sometimes I have to remind him how he used to be, how he used to feel about his faith, and how he used to love me. I tell him that I want my husband back, and in our moments of clarity and solidarity, in his moment of soberness, we often cry together. I love Nathan. I really do. I will never give up on him, and when I pray that he will be healed from his troubles, those are the moments I often hear God speaking. I believe in His words.

‘Sarah, Sarah, I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe I’ve done it again,’ he says to me in the apologetic tone he always adopts, as though he knows his wrong and is making his attempt at drawing my empathy towards his behaviour. His dark unblemished face creates a look that asks me to feel sorry for him—a look that, in most cases, I fall victim to.

‘Well, you have, Nathan,’ I say to him, my look no longer tolerant. I am unwilling to give him the sympathy he craves. He reads my facial expressions. He doesn’t like this, so he plays the pity card once more.

‘I know. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,’ he says.

I’m not buying it however. I’ve had enough. ‘Harder than it needs to be? Look at my face, Nathan!’ I respond. I can’t believe his audacity, his words, as though I’m supposed to feel guilty about being hard on him. What am I supposed to do, act as though everything is okay? This man who claims to love me abuses me, beats on me. I’ve grown up hearing stories like this but never thought I’d be a part of one of them. I used to think only white women went through things like this. The moment a man lifts his hands to a black woman those same hands get cut off. That’s what I was brought up believing.

‘And again, I said I’m sorry,’ he responds.

‘And that’s supposed to make it better? It’s not as if the word sorry will somehow heal me. Will sorry take away the pain you put me through? Will sorry undo all the times we have been here—at this point, this time, this space? Will sorry wipe away the bad memories I have?’

Nathan goes quiet.

I continue. ‘Exactly.’

‘Look, it won’t happen again. I swear.’

His apologies repulse me, disgust me, and my face cannot deny it. ‘You said that before.’ He has said that before—many times before. And there are only a certain amount of times one can apologise before the apology becomes as redundant as a man or woman whose have lost a job with a last pay cheque as his or her prise.

‘I mean it this time.’

He actually believes he does mean it, but my doubt lingers like a bad smell, a sewage pipe that is leaking. I can’t help but be hard on him. ‘You also said that before.’

‘Do you want my apology or not, Sarah?’

‘I want you to stop hitting me. That’s what I want! Can you do that for me, Nathan? Can you really do that?’ I ask. A part of me wants to believe he regrets his actions, but how long am I supposed to put up with it, no matter the reasons.

‘I said I’d stop. I don’t know what else to say.’

Perhaps there is little he can say. Maybe it’s all too late I don’t know. I feel so damn confused.

He gets into the bed and curls up beside me, touching my bruised face, my facial expressions telling him that I am in pain. He’ll feel guilty now and less angry. He’s vented his anger out on me for the umpteenth time, and now he’ll feel remorseful. It’s our cycle. A part of me wants to run away. A part of me wants out of this marriage. My mother never birthed me for this. Still, the other side of me wants to see it through until death do us part—our words. I’m hoping those words are not literal. I want to live a productive life with him God’s way, but tonight I feel confused and lonely even though my husband is beside me. He holds me, trying to comfort what his destructive actions are out to destroy. He is holding me, trying to comfort my soul.

‘What can I do?’ he asks.

I think on his words for a minute. I don’t really have an answer. ‘I don’t know any more, Nathan. I really don’t know.’

‘You tell me.’ He wants me to be there for him, as though he realises his problems and wants me to fix them. His puppy look is still present. He didn’t look so sweet when he was beating on me. He didn’t look so soft and warm-hearted then. He had anger on his face that would scare away a hungry bear—a look so devilish it would chase away a pack of wolves.

‘Change,’ I say weakly, not believing he actually can. Yet that is the only thing that I could come up with, as if it were as easy as that, change. If we could all change the darkest parts of us so simply, I am sure we would.

‘I’ve tried. You know I’ve tried,’ he replies. Perhaps he is being honest. I don’t know. I want to believe him, but I need to remain strong and bullish as I regain my confidence during his remorse. I need to push the limit without breaking the boundaries. Silly things can set him off. I know that.

‘Not hard enough, Nathan. You were never like this before the drinking.’ He wasn’t but the more he drank, the more aggressive he became. Maybe if he stops the drinking, I can finally have my husband back.

‘I know. I’m sorry. I told you it stems from my father,’ he confesses. I have heard the story about the abuse he has been through before. I even felt bad for him after he’d beat on me when he first spoke of it. I used to curse his dad for making him like that. I used to curse myself for provoking what his father created. The blame wasn’t with him, but now I feel differently.

‘That’s a cop-out, just another excuse. You can’t keep blaming him for your actions,’ I say. I’m not going to allow him to use his father as a get out clause—a get out of jail card like in a Monopoly game. I’m not having it at all. How many people use others as their excuse for failure? If I received a pound for everyone who has done so in his or her lifetime, I’d be a rich woman.

‘He used to hit my mother,’ he tells me, still trying to pursue a stale excuse—one I’ve heard a dozen times.

‘And now you hit me,’ I respond in anger. He doesn’t understand. He is not listening. I’ve had enough.

‘It’s all I know,’ he counters.

‘Is it, Nathan? Is it really all you know?’ I can’t believe this man. Still trying to justify his actions.

‘I’ve always wanted to be better than him. You know that. I wanted to love better than he loved. But now I’m just the same as him … pitiful.’ There he goes again, the puppy look, as though all is not his fault.

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ I am becoming increasingly annoyed.

‘I feel so ashamed. God, I am so ashamed. What is wrong with me? Here I am naked, beating my Father’s daughter.’ He is talking to himself now, battling with his inner demons.

‘You know what’s wrong with you.’ He does know what’s wrong with him. He is not stupid. He may not want to confront his issues, but he certainly cannot deny them.

‘Then help me.’

How the heck am I supposed to help? Am I the one who raises a fist every time we have a disagreement? Am I the one who raises my hand if you say something out of line, out of turn? Am I the one forcing you to drink? ‘Only Jesus can do that,’ I tell him.

‘Then tell me what to do to start.’ He still doesn’t realise the responsibility is with him. I feel like I am giving him all the answers as if he were a child. Answers that I don’t have. ‘You have to help yourself. Talk to Pastor or something.’

‘I can’t.’ He bottles it just like I thought he would. He doesn’t want to change. His words sound good, but his actions are no different than a man or woman wanting to leave a job but having not yet made the effort to, at the very least, create a curriculum vita.

‘As I thought …’ I tell him, letting my voice trail off.

‘I have a reputation.’

‘And your rep comes before your wife, right?’ Pride is a killer for any man or woman. Pride can take us out of our walk. He is filled with pride—pride and stupidity. Would he prefer to lose his wife over his pride?

‘Pastor thinks highly of me. He’d be disappointed.’

‘He won’t judge you,’ I reply. I cannot take any more of this. Not tonight anyway. Tonight this man has taken me to the brink.

‘But the church will.’

‘Are you there for the congregation or are you there for God? And besides, that is just another excuse. Everything between you and Pastor is confidential.’ Everything between a pastor and his sheep is confidential, and Nathan knows this. The last thing a pastor needs is to have the reputation of having a big mouth.

‘I feel so ashamed, Sarah. Do you still love me?’

I cannot believe he has the nerve to ask me if I love him, but he does. What would he like me to say? ‘Yeah Nathan I love you. You just beat the crap out of me, but it’s okay. We can move on. Here is a cuddle.’

‘I don’t know anymore.’ I am being honest.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know anymore?’

I mean exactly what I said, but as always, nothing is heard. ‘Exactly that. A few hours ago, you were hitting me. My face and my stomach hurt. I am tired and fed up, and my feelings are not my own.’

‘Should I take you to hospital?’ he offers.

‘And what will you say? That I fell down the stairs—again?’ The good old stairs story. Or did I bump into a door this time?

‘Um …’

‘Exactly. Besides, I’ll be okay. The bruises will heal. It’s my spirit that’s been broken. I’m going to sleep.’

Nathan

MAN, I CAN’T believe I’ve done it again. I cannot believe I lost control like that, and here I am lying next to my wife after another weak apology. She won’t even turn around to look at me, and I know she’s awake. What am I doing to her? Putting her through all this. She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves better than a man like me. I cannot even understand why I do it to her. I just get so angry at times and lose all bearings on reality. It’s like an explosion, and if the fuse is lit, I come out of my body. I see myself doing it, but I can’t stop. Then I regret my actions immediately afterwards.

Now I question—is this a weakness I have? Having to overpower my women? Is it a gene that stems from my father? He wasn’t much to look up to, but they say we are all a reflection of how we’ve been brought up, both good and bad. It’s all we know. I didn’t want to inherit his bad side, yet his actions clearly still have a stronghold over me. I used to hate watching my mother getting beaten up, and even though I was very young, it still felt bad, so I always knew he was doing wrong.

Now I’m here causing Sarah the same pain, to the point that she can barely even look my way. Sometimes I think to myself, Is she scared to look into my eyes, not knowing whether inside them lies a deep rage or love? And at other times, I simply feel as though she doesn’t want to look, period. When you look into the eyes of your lover, you are supposed to see the beauty in his or her soul, but in my soul sits an anger that is barely recognisable as the man I used to be. I cannot blame her one bit for feeling the way she does. I can admit that. Now I watch her agony as she lies next to me, silent. I see the bruises on her face that I’ve caused; yet I have nothing left to say to console her. How can I console her when I am the one who has caused her all this pain?

It’s as if I’m staring at myself again as a little boy. I see the pain in my mother’s eyes after my father laid into her, the pain that gave my mother her name—victim. She was a victim of my father’s abusive ways until one of them had to overcome the other. A few times, she and I would try to run away from him. We’d hide out in hotels and all sorts of places. We truly lived the Tina Turner lifestyle, but this story wouldn’t end in separation. As I said before, it became a him-or-her situation. He became the victim. Now I wonder how our story will end.

I need to change. I need to drink less. Alcohol, it’s the damn alcohol. I know I’m not an alcoholic, even though Sarah tries to say I am. I just need to drink less; that’s all. I just need to control how much I take in. Alcohol relaxes me. I need that in my line of work. Sales, pressured sales; I constantly have to hit numbers just to maintain my job, our house, and the fine shoes she wears. Tomorrow I’ll buy my baby flowers to make it up to her. That’s it! Women love flowers. I’ll show her how sorry I am. I’ll even buy her a new pair of shoes. Women love shoes, and I love my wife.

Lionel

I STRAP UP my arm until my veins surface, needing to release myself from a pain that forever resides inside me. I lost my wife and kids to gambling—a loss of control over my life that led towards a point of no return. The more you lose, the more you try to recover, and the more you try to recover, the more you lose. I need my escape. I need my fix, even if the fix isn’t real, just a momentary gift for a needy man, a way to forget the happenings around me—a way for me to experience a high that allows me to feel like God.

I thread a thin line. I know that. But I figure fate is what you make it, and I ain’t scared of fate. The closest I’ve ever come to death was through my own lack of judgement. I injected heroin into a major artery. I knew instantly what I’d done, as the blood squirted rather than trickled. Luckily enough, however, I pulled out straight away before injecting all the heroin into my system. The needle felt stubborn the minute it entered me—a clear sign that I’d hit the wrong target. I came that close. Momentarily, I was even scared. Now I figure, if I had died, that may have been the escape I needed from living this hell on earth. At times, I don’t know who I’m residing with—heaven or hell—but what I do know is that this life without my wife and kids feels so crappy that any hell couldn’t possibly compare. And if God doesn’t want me, I guess somebody else will. Am I really scared of death? It’s a question I ask myself every day. I seem to be pushing myself to the limit, even by pushing the needle into the same part of my body. I am surprised my vein hasn’t collapsed by now. That’s how scared I am of death.

I start to feel the heroin intoxication, the high. I need to feel that stimulating love to the brain. I want my pleasure even if that euphoria is only for a minute, and the comedown takes me to a faraway place. I can always seek that high again. I’d do anything to avoid the emotional pain and torment I go through every hour of every day. That crap is too much for me to bear, and this is my only way out. I can’t stand knowing my family is out there, and I don’t know where.

You must be crazy. I never asked for this. They say you can only play the hand you are dealt, but I don’t like my hand, and gratitude for living somehow moved right by me. I feel like my flesh is covered in dislike, hate, loneliness, pity, and every other negative feeling one can feel. Despair pretty much sums me up.

I have very few people to confide in and only one friend courteous enough to come and see me in my hostel from time to time. My hostel is another reason to hate this life. Four walls of stripping paint—dirty, cream-coloured—with dampness coming from each corner of the room. I have even noticed a few mould patches as well, and I would be surprised not to see any mites. This would be the perfect room in which to become ill. Perhaps I am ill. In this society, I’ve noticed how they look down on you when you’ve lost everything. Before, I used to be a somebody. Now they look on me like I’m nobody—a piece of dirt, nothing. This is the London I’ve come to know. Owning my own business for so many years, I never felt it. I’m telling you, I was a somebody. Everybody wants to know a somebody. Now I find myself sharing a urinal and bog loo with a hundred different people on the same floor—women as well as men in the same toilet. The urinal for men is stained and rusted. The toilet is often left unflushed. I live in a hostel rats would be ashamed of. Now I know I’m a nobody. Society makes me feel that way.

Sheila

SO HERE I am thinking about all that I’ve given to this man. He has three kids and a marriage to a woman who has always remained faithful to her vows. And now I find myself alone, wondering where he is. I was always told a player can’t be made into a kept man, but I always figured, if I loved him enough and remained faithful to God, then all would fall into place. The problem is, however, I knew from the very start that my beliefs would be my undoing. I was making a mistake marrying him, but my willingness to defy those against our marriage was much greater than my sanity. I always had a niggling feeling going in, as though Jesus was speaking to me before I messed up. Yet years with this man outweighed any reservations I had. Instead of listening to the angel on my left shoulder, I chose to listen to the man on my right. I ended up dropping kid after kid, hoping that would tame Adam, but no such thing occurred. And now I have a feeling I am pregnant again.

I start to feel tears in my eyes welling up. I look around me, framed picture after framed picture of our wedding day, friends among friends rejoicing in our union. Now I find it easier to count the friends I have left on one hand. I pick up the portfolio of pictures of our wedding day from its place on the fine wooden mantelpiece. They would be a good advert for a wedding planner. Everyone looked joyful at our union. The day was covered in rosy pinks, sky blues, and light greys. That was our theme. As I flick through the pages, my hands are finally encouraged to wipe away the fully developed flood streaming from my eyes as I study the pictures closely. Adam was full of smiles that were as genuine as the sound of his vows to me that day. Now they appear as empty words. I notice most of our friends in attendance at our wedding were from my side. During the ceremony, we never really paid that much attention. My family became his; my friends tried to accept him as best they could. They were his friends.

His mother graced our wedding, but not in a good way. Her mood swings have always been unpleasant, but when you make vows, you make promises. As much as I had to accept Adam for any flaws, I had to accept those who had helped to create Adam and make him the man he had become. His father, on the other hand, was a stern man with an alcohol addiction, and, even under the heavy influence of liquor, still managed to always put Adam in his place, even when unnecessary. I used to feel sorry for Adam, believing no child should suffer verbal abuse like that. It couldn’t be healthy for any child, young or old. I never understood the anger and animosity between my man and his father. There seemed to be a lot of hate. They say every feeling comes from somewhere, and somewhere in this family stood a lot of pain. Some spirits carry through generations like a curse. I wanted to save Adam from that curse, but now I feel cursed with him.

I try to look back to our wedding. As I reminisce, my damp eyes threaten more rain. Then a calm lingers over me, allowing me a short respite. I think back to Adam’s two brothers—more alcoholics in the family. Well, that’s true of one of them anyway, the closest one to Adam. Yet Curtis, the drunken brother, was the only brother to attend the wedding. The other brother, Raymond, refused to attend without reason, at least known to me anyway. He just continuously said—almost sarcastically—that I should ask my future husband. I brought it up to Adam a few times, but I knew he was never going to give me a straight answer, and Curtis was so liquored up I’d be surprised if he actually knew that Adam and I had tied the knot; he was that bad.

I close my eyes, trying to focus less on the internal pain, my heart thumping as I attempt to say a little prayer. From somewhere, I need strength, so I look towards the divine. I ask Jesus if He is listening. I ask if He can release His daughter from all this suffering. I ask Him to look over me and keep me, because I can no longer handle all this loneliness. I have three kids that I no longer have the willpower to nurture. I no longer feel like a mother but, rather, like a fraud to the name. How can a mother be so disconnected from her children? After my second child, I suffered from postnatal depression, and I now feel at times as if that condition never left. I remember going through counselling and taking prescribed medication many years ago. I became so reliant on the medication that I decided to assess myself. I finally took myself off the medication before the doctors told me to. Maybe that’s the problem. Perhaps I was never fully better. Am I seeing all the signs manifest again? They say that many women who suffer from postnatal depression don’t even realise what