Part 3

A Teenager's Journey: Overcoming a Childhood of Abuse
by Richard B. Pelzer

(Page 3 of 5)

He had offered to sell me a gun if I ever wanted to stop Mom. At the time I thought about it, but I'd never had the guts to seriously consider actually killing anyone-until now.

As I walked the same streets that led me both to school and toward Jonathan's house, I thought about why I was so comfortable with the idea of suicide. Ever since that night in the basement when I'd thought so much about my life and even seemed to have made some sense of it, I had been determined to end it one way or another. All I had to do was find a way. I knew my friend was serious about the gun. As I made my way along the path through the trees by Westmore Hill, I realized that I wasn't scared; I was comfortable.

Before long I made it to Jonathan's house. I rang the doorbell, knowing in my heart that everything would be all right. His father answered the door, and I asked if his son was able to speak to me. He invited me into the house, and Jonathan came into the hallway and motioned for me to follow him downstairs.

In the corner of the basement was a small cabinet with a few pistols and rifles.

"If your dad finds out, there'll be serious trouble," I said.

"I've done it before," he replied smugly.

He had little concern about selling one of his father's guns without his knowledge. I knew that someday his father would discover it missing, but I wasn't going to be around to learn of the outcome.

He took out what looked like a chrome-plated thirtycaliber automatic handgun. Without hesitating, I handed him the agreed forty dollars. My friend unloaded the magazine from the handle and showed me the several rounds, then reloaded the magazine. I thought to myself: All I needed was one bullet, but it doesn't matter.

I stuffed the pistol in my pocket and we left the basement via the garage door. I said good-bye and walked down the street. I could feel the weight of the gun in my pocket. It gave me satisfaction.

The walk back to the house I called "home" was almost spiritual. I took notice of the tree paths and the streets leading up to Westmore Hill. I will never see them again, I thought. At the steps to the high school I sat down, feeling the cold stone. I thought back to the house, and the basement. I was happy inside. For the first time in years I really felt happy.

I found my favorite place among the trees where I would often go and talk with God. I'd been talking to God for a while now, but it was always a one-sided conversation. I felt this would probably be my last talk with him. As I pondered taking my own life, the feeling came over me that if I did I would in some way be offending him. I wasn't sure why, but it seemed as if I would be giving up, and in an odd sort of way, giving in.

So, if I do this what will happen to me? I asked God.

As I lay on my back talking to him, I realized that the decision to take my life was all my own. God would have nothing to do with a teenager committing suicide.

I know I've been a disappointment to you and I know that you're angry with me. I just can't do this anymore, I respectfully and sincerely said. If you're going to help me then help me now!

As the last words softly left my lips I waited anxiously for a response. The minutes passed and the anxiety became anger as I realized that I wasn't getting any answers. Eventually I gave up and found comfort in the thought that I was once again on my own. I started to think about how and where I would do it. The thought of the gun firing and the impact of a bullet to the head made me wonder just how fast death would come.

What if it isn't as quick as I think it will be?

What if I can feel the bullet rush through my skull tearing the bone apart, scattering it everywhere?

As I pondered my fear of the unknown, I realized that there was just no way of knowing what to expect.

It's not like I can ask someone who's done it,I thought.

I sat and pondered some more, this time about when I learned that my neighbor down the street had jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. She worked for the local phone company. When I was eight or nine years old, I used to secretly spend time talking to her when Mom was too busy with other things. As I thought about that day, I recalled the emotions that her mother shared with me: The sheer sense of emptiness and wonderment was overpowering. I kept wondering what could have caused her to actually go through with it. She was a pretty girl who seemed to have friends. I didn't know what was on her mind or what was lacking in her life, but I knew that she felt strongly about it. She must have had a good reason. I recalled the few ink portraits I made. She had introduced me to a whole new form of speech by teaching me how to take ink to canvas and how to use pictures and not words to express myself. I wondered where they were now.

I knew that I would never know the reason why she did it, and I felt empty inside. The only people I would want to understand, when I was truly ready to do the same, were my two brothers Ross and Keith. They were the only ones that would even care, the only ones that would miss me.

Copyright © 2006 Richard B. Pelzer

About the Author

Richard was born forth of five boys in 1965 in Daly City, California. During his childhood, Richard lived the nightmare and horrors we only hear of - known as child abuse. From his earliest memories, Richard recalls watching his older brother David being abused and was the only witnesses to his mother's attempt to kill her son and Richard's older brother. Once the California authorities learned of the unspeakable acts occurring in a suburban California home, the state removed Richard's brother leaving him and three other boys behind. Throughout his adolescence and teen years, Richard suffered physical, mental and emotional abuse at the hands of his mother.