My Fight with the Devil

By Derrick Turner

EPILOGUE

 

Mental madness, misery, guilt, physical neglect; it all came like a whirlwind as I crawled around in the darkness, searching for my sanity. I had barricaded myself in the cold bedroom of the condemned building. The demons danced on the surface of mind, bringing with them the illusion of peace in a small rock that my

• Language: English
• Publisher: Global Summit House
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638216100

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2 

Chapter 3 

Chapter 4 

Chapter 5 

Chapter 6 

Chapter 7 

Chapter 8 

Chapter 9 

Chapter 10 

Chapter 11 

Chapter 12 

Landmarks

Cover

Copyright © 2021 Derrick Turner.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-63821-611-7 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-63821-612-4 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-63821-610-0 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to the real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Book Ordering Information

Phone Number: 315 288-7939 ext. 1000 or 347-901-4920

Email: [e-mail]

Global Summit House

www.globalsummithouse.com

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 1

N ORMAL, what the hell does that mean! Don’t waste your time trying to figure it out. I’m 54 years old and I still don’t have a fucking clue! They say, we learn from our parents, well let me expound on that…

The first thing my parents taught me was how to mask all the dysfunctional shit they were doing. Getting drunk, cussing each other out, fighting, and everything else you can think of. I mean, my life was anything but normal. But when you’re nine, ten, eleven years old, seeing your parents drunk was funny. My father would come home wasted and crack jokes until the liquor stretched him out in the middle of the bathroom floor, his arms wrapped tightly around the porcelain god. I remember him asking the toilet to save him from the sickness he was feeling. I remember standing there, waiting to see if the toilet would free him from his anguish. It would be years before I learned the devil came in many forms, and his force would soon come cleverly disguised in a cloud of white smoke!

I was around seven years old when I saw the evil slither its way into my home. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the devil riding my parents back like a cowboy at a rodeo. As a kid I was taught the devil was this creature who stood upright like a man and his skin was fiery red, and he had huge fangs, horns on his head,and a long pointed tail that protruded from his lower back, and he held a large red hot fork in his hand that he used to carry the condemned to his dungeon consumed by fire to be punished for all eternity for their sins.

At seven years old my curiosity was off the charts. As scary as the description of him sounded, I remember wanting to see this hideous beast in the flesh. I had no idea he was already there, lurking in the souls of my own parents. They had been prisoners to this unholy entity for years, probably even before I was born. My father lied, my mother lied, and they dressed up the truth to blind me from the reality of the hell we were all trapped in.

I never knew hell could be above ground, but in my household it was just that. The only thing missing was the fire. The physical abuse was overwhelming when it came to life right in front of my eyes! My father was the man of the house and the way he enforced his dominance was with violence and my mother was his punching bag. I hated when I saw him hit my mother, but the fights would only seem to happen when he had been drinking. Sober, he was my best friend, but the liquor turned him into a force to be reckoned with. At seven years old, he was a huge man and I feared him! I didn’t understand addiction and I didn’t know he was an alcoholic.

I remember those days I would run to the living room window, gazing out at his parking space, waiting on him to come home from work. Those were some of the best times of my life because I knew he hadn’t been drinking yet and my mother would not have to suffer any abuse. He had his flaws and some of them were ugly, but he was my father. He was the example I had to follow, and he demonstrated it with an iron fist!

I believe the mental abuse started before I was seven, but I was too young to know what it was. I mean, they talked to one another using such harsh words, but soon after, they would be laughing and in love as though nothing ever happened. That was the part that always confused me. I didn’t understand how you could beat someone and love them at the same time.

My mother always made excuses for my father’s abuse. It’s the alcohol, she would say. I was too young to know how to separate the two. She would take those beatings from my father like a child being spanked by his parents and knew not to swing back! The flights were devastating on the weekends because saturday and sunday were his off days. He started drinking around two or three in the afternoon. The liquor fueled his anger and sent him into a furious rage! I was seven years old and no match for the beast that emerged out of him. I had to watch him strike my mother with a closed fist and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop him. The physical abuse hadn’t landed in my lap yet, but sometimes I wish it had, the mental abuse was much worse.

As I grew older the fights came more frequent and more violent. His drinking progressed, and his punches started rerouting in my direction. I was around ten or eleven the first time he hit me

He came home late one Friday evening wasted! I was posted in front of the living room window the way I did every night since I was 5 years old. I always knew when he was parking; his car had a unique sound and it was programmed in my hearing. He opened the car door and got out stumbling and tripping over his own feet. I knew as soon as he entered the house my mother was his target. But, I was wrong, he opened the front door and the moment I saw his face I knew he was dead drunk. All though I had grown a little, I was