Battered Soul

By Del Ellison

The violence experienced by the author in this story include such extremes as her father attempting to kill her as an infant. While her mother was able to save her life, she could not shield her from the bloody violence her alcoholic husband caused every weekend. When she finally managed to leave the drunken idiot, they moved up north to Chicago, and their lives changed dramatically.

The author became a citywide champ diver and a Fred Astaire dance teacher. She went on to become a professional actress and a TV news reporter whose career lasted fifteen years. She thanks her sweet mother for all of this.

She hopes her story will give hope to others who are also victims of child abuse. She hopes to inspire them to proceed to rewarding careers and productive lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638817253

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The infant’s desperate screams could be heard throughout the neighborhood. The bone-chilling wails pierced the silent streets, between broken-down wood-framed houses, and continued through weedy backyards, downhill through the cactus and knee-tall grass and shrubs, and all the way down to the Alazan Creek.

Four-month-old baby Del closed her eyes; took short, deep breaths; opened her little mouth; and released cries of pain, not just from the cool night air but also from the rocky gravel she lay on.

The infant’s father, Eloy had come home drunk and started a fight with his wife.

He jabbed my mom’s chest hard with his finger and yelled loud at her, Hija de tu chingada madre! You lying, stupid bitch!

He accused her of being unfaithful, that she had cheated on him with some gringo—a white guy—and that is why the baby girl did not look Hispanic.

Delfina responded with a scream of her own, Borracho idiota! You drunken idiot! You were born in Mexico, but your father is from Spain and your mother from Germany. That’s why our daughter has blonde hair and fair skin! Pendejo.

Eloy knew she was right; perhaps that’s what enraged him. Thank goodness she was a strong young woman and could usually fend him off—but not this time. He slapped her so hard she twisted sideways and fell to the floor. He looked down at her, cussed, and kicked her with his pointed cowboy boot on her backside. Still uttering vile curses, he turned and staggered out of the kitchen.

When Mom regained her senses and with blood running down her swollen face, she limped to the kitchen sink. Her smooth cinnamon complexion was red and sore where he’d slapped her. The backside of her leg where he kicked her so hard ached. We had no running water, so Mom always kept on the counter a pail of water from the water well that was in the rear of the lot, a common situation in poor communities in the southwest side of San Antonio.

Eloy had staggered to the front room, looked down at the sleeping baby in the crib, picked her up, and carried her outside. With his baby tucked under his arm, he walked down the rickety wooden porch steps and then to the back of his truck. When he reached the right rear end of it, he kneeled on one knee, placed the baby on the ground, and shoved her tiny body up until her little head was tucked up tight against the back wheel of his truck.

Baby Del closed her eyes; took short, deep breaths; opened her little mouth; and released cries of pain. She felt cold, and the rocky gravel she lay on hurt her head.

The little rocks cut the back of her little head and caused some bleeding. In pain, she screamed, took in deep breaths, and began to cry.

With her head jammed up tight against the back wheel of a 1935 flatbed truck, the infant cried and whimpered. She looked frightened and startled, perhaps wondering what was happening to her. She continued to cry in agony.

Eloy swayed drunkenly as he looked down at his infant. Then he straightened, pointed a finger at his tiny child, and muttered, Ija de tu chingada madre! You are the daughter of a motherfucking bitch!

Baby Del stopped crying, and with a frightened wide-eyed expression on her little face, she looked up at him with pouting pink lips and tears in her eyes. Again she took a deep breath and opened her mouth as if to plead, but only cries came out. He looked down at her and smirked as he turned and staggered to the front of his flatbed truck, got into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut.

Meantime in the kitchen, Delfina dried her hands and patted her bruised, swollen face. She returned to the front room, stopped, and listened as she could hear her baby crying. She went to the crib, but it was empty. Then she limped to the front door; forgetting the pain in her leg, she ran out.

By now, Eloy had turned on the truck lights and started the engine. In panic, Delfina bounded down the loose, creaking porch steps two at a time. In the shadow of the truck lights, she saw her baby’s little arms and legs weaving and kicking, still crying.

Just as she reached the back wheel of the truck, Eloy shifted gears. Delfina bent over and picked up her screaming baby. She turned, placed the baby on her left hip, and quickly walked away from the crazed lunatic back to the house.

When she reached the porch, she looked over her shoulder. To her horror, the truck was slowly backing up!

She whispered to herself, Ay Dios mio! Oh my god!

Instead of going up the porch steps into the house, she turned, balanced her baby girl on her left hip again, and then carefully but quickly walked alongside the rotting dark, unpainted three-room house to the weedy backyard which led downward toward the Alazan Creek.

She held her breath as she sped past the stinky outhouse in the backyard. The door of the odorous old wooden shack was broken and hung half-open. She tightened her grip on her baby girl as she slowed somewhat, hoping she wouldn’t trip or fall anywhere near that smelly, rotting outhouse.

The evening sky began to darken. She was barefoot, so she slowed to a steady walk. Soon the darkness of the night enveloped her as she went down the bumpy Texas terrain leading to the Alazan creek. Gingerly she continued through weeds and shrub as she neared the water’s edge, avoiding but not always missing cactus and other sharp, spiky plants along the way.

Most of the vegetation was brittle due to lack of rain in the dry South Texas weather. By now, the baby was quiet. The only sound was her breath getting pushed out of her tiny lungs, Huh-huh-huh, as her mom ran step by step, blindly trying to protect the baby and her own face by holding her right arm up to protect them from the spiky wild brush.

At last, breathless and exhausted, she slowed down but continued to walk. Her face was bleeding as were her arms, legs, and her bare feet.

On a journey of their own, billowing dark-gray clouds covered much of the sky. They ballooned and contracted as they silently rambled past the full moon.

As the clouds moved on, they exposed the moon’s bright yellow aura. Beautiful golden rays that reached down to earth made it easier for Delfina to make her way safely to the creek. All was quiet except for occasional sounds of crickets and frogs.

When she heard the sound of the babbling creek, she stopped, looked over her shoulder, and listened, concerned Eloy may have followed; but all she could hear now was the rippling sound of water.

Satisfied no one was nearby, she sat down at the creek’s edge. With her baby on her lap, she put her sore, bloody feet into the water and, with her right hand, rubbed the cool liquid on her knees and then down her legs. Cuts from the dry weeds burned her skin as blood dripped down her arms and legs. Her face also bled from the drooping, spiky sunflower stalks she had blindly sped by. Feeling safe now, she gently put her hands on her baby’s shoulders and kissed her little cheek.

After she wiped her baby’s face and the blood on her little head, with her feet still in the water, Delfina lifted baby Del up off her lap and held her against her chest with both arms, grateful to feel her baby’s rapidly beating little heart next to her own. With a deep sigh, she took in several breaths and waited. Her long black lashes were shining with tears of sorrow as they slowly ran down her lovely face.

Mom told me about this horrible event when I was twenty as I held Tommy, my two-year-old boy, in my arms. My grip on him didn’t tighten, but I gently held him closer as if to soothe him and protect his little body by pressing him close to my own rapidly beating heart.

My mouth agape, I looked at Mom with a frozen smile on my slightly upturned lips. But I know she could see there was no amusement in my eyes. By laughing as she told this story, I know she tried to ease the shock; yet I know she could feel the pain that also dug deep into my mind, heart, and soul.

When I regained my composure, I said, Oh, Mom, you’re kidding me, right?

With tears brightening her beautiful brown eyes and a more serious expression on her face, she gently shook her head as she said, "No, mijita. It’s true."

My sweet mom was not only a smart, sensitive woman, she also had intuitive intelligence and was musically inclined. She would play the violin as one of her brothers, Gustavo, played the bass and another relative played an accordion. She had a great singing voice as well and taught me how to sing and harmonize. So as she strummed a guitar or played violin, we sang beautiful Spanish and Mexican songs in harmony.

My dad? Other than his drunken violence, I don’t know too much about him. I know that his mom, my grandmother, was from Germany. I never met my grandfather who was from Spain, which is why my maiden last name is Yglecias, similar to that great, handsome singer Julio Iglecias, also a Spaniard.

I also know that my sweet, brave mother had repeatedly kept our crazy dad from physically harming me or my older siblings—my brother, Bob, and my sister, Olivia. Dad’s anger was aimed at his wife as he wanted total control of her even if it took violence to do so.

It could not have been easy for my mom. We had no electricity, no running water, and no money for hospitals; therefore, I was born at home. I regret I didn’t ask Mom who helped her deliver me, her fourth child. She lost her firstborn at birth. Her next child was my brother, Bob, now ten years old, and my sister, Olivia, eight years old when I was born. They had no knowledge of our father’s violence against me, their newborn baby sister. If they knew, I’m sure they would have mentioned it to me at some point as we grew older.

I know that Dad’s ugly behavior was not new to them. And it continued to escalate as we all grew older.

My father tried to murder me as an infant? It was a difficult reality to accept. And for years, I didn’t give it much thought.

Then, little by little, I began to recall memories that were deeply hidden in the recesses of my mind regarding the drunken lunacy of Eloy Yglecias, the violent father of my childhood who nearly murdered me when I was just an infant.

CHAPTER 2

Battered Soul

I was three years old in 1944, and World War II was well underway. The economy in the United States was improving. But the violence in our home continued to escalate, which made the first memories of my father very ugly.

My family was still together, living in the three-room house that had never been painted, and it was so poorly constructed we could see the outdoors between cracked wallboards and feel the hot air rush in during the summer and the cold in the winter. Fortunately, body heat and blankets had kept us warm. But short winters soon gave way to long, hot Texas summers. We had no electricity, so it meant no fans to cool us off.

In those dark days, few women left their husbands even if they were abused by them. Now I understand the real reason my sweet mom continued to endure my alcoholic dad’s violent behavior.

Mom was one of fourteen children. While she was born in Asherton, Texas, her parents were from Mexico. She only had a third-grade education, so if she left my father, how would she make a living? How could she support, feed, and shelter three children? Thank God she was not only a beautiful, intelligent lady, she also had great common sense.

My dad lacked an education as well. He would go to farms, pay to pick fruits and vegetables, put them on the flatbed of his truck, and then return to town to sell them on street corners or take them to food markets where they were bought by our neighbors.

I don’t know how much money he earned, but it made no difference because I now think he drank most of it and spent the rest womanizing. At one point, I remember Mom earned money by cracking pecans in a nut factory. It was done by hand, so her hands and fingers were always red and sore.

While Mom couldn’t leave the man she married, she no longer trusted him and, now, truly feared him. But because of the war, more and better-paying jobs were available, so Mom managed to get a job with the military as a truck driver for the Brooks Field Air Force Base on the southeast side of San Antonio. It was a very dangerous job as she drove huge trucks loaded with ammunition to Camp Bullis, and from there, the ammo was flown to our fighting troops overseas.

Mom was now making more money, and we no longer went hungry as we so often had. Then we moved to an apartment in a brand-new government housing development called the Alazan Courts, just off Guadalupe Street and not far from our old wooden house in the southwest side of San Antonio.

The two-story, two-bedroom apartment was in a huge complex of similar buildings. Inside, concrete floors led to brick walls. It also had a living room and a small dining area in the kitchen. The upstairs had two bedrooms and a bathroom. These apartments were built for poor people, mostly Hispanics. The front of our apartment was about a hundred yards from the Alazan Creek that also ran along the rear of the old three-room house we had lived in. For us, it was a palace.

Moving was a good thing. It was government housing, but it had electricity and running water! However we had to bring our icebox as my parents could not afford a refrigerator.