Death Upon Me

Death Upon Me

B.K. Walker

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B.K. Walker on Smashwords

Death Upon Me

©2010 by B.K. Walker

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Review of Death Upon Me:

Death Upon Me tells the journey of Kacey. A young girl who suffers mental and physical abuse from her Uncle and slides down a slippery slope of alcohol and drugs. When she becomes pregnant, life takes her down a very emotional road. A young girl, who is a mother and now she loves two men. One is physically abusive to her, the other, her daughters father. The twists and turns of Kacey’s life will touch your heart right to the last page. B.K Walker has successfully brought her characters to life with an intensity that is spell binding. A very worthwhile read.I rate this book a Citrine. 4/5 ~Margaret West, Author of Heart of a Warrior and Two Faces One Life. www.margaret-west.com

Chapter 1

I was crying hysterically as I tried to load the clip into the 9mm gun. I kept saying to myself, I’m going to do this! I can do this and I will! As I finally heard the clip snap into place, I brought it to my forehead with a shaky hand. I was ready to leave this horrible world behind and I placed my finger on the trigger..........

Five Years Earlier

It was the spring of 1985, and living in this small town of White Deer, Pennsylvania my entire life has not been an easy journey. I always thought of myself as just plain ordinary - I was more on the tomboy side, always wearing jeans, tee shirts, and sneakers. When the weather called for it I would throw on a flannel shirt. My hazel eyes changed color with my moods and I never wore makeup. If I wasn’t wearing a ballcap, I just let my long curly brown hair land where it may. My teeth were crooked and my smile

was imperfect. I was usually a shy girl, but would say what I had to say if the need was there. That is pretty much plain and ordinary, don’t you think?

My mother was Diana Rogers, age thirty five, and she looked a lot like me except she had blue eyes. She worked at night, and with me going to school, the only time I saw her was on the weekends. Even during that time we didn’t spend much time together. My mother worked in a factory for minimum wage and barely made enough money to get by. She had attempted college earlier in life, but dropped out because she couldn’t afford it. Diana never had it easy growing up neither. My grandfather was an abusive alcoholic, mostly mentally and emotionally, according to my Mom. My mother and her siblings got out the first chance they got, and she married my father when she was eighteen. They were married one year before I was born. She told me the day I was born was the happiest day of her life, and because she missed her own mother who died before I was born, I was named Kacey in honor of my grandmother.

After three years of marriage, my father ran off with another woman. Mom says she was a stripper. That I don’t know for sure, nor do I know his whereabouts, and he never tried to contact me since his departure. I barely remember my dad, since I was only two years old when he left. My mom has shown me pictures of him, but I could probably pass him on the street and not even know it was him. All the pictures are old, from when they were first married. When he left, he never looked back.

As I told you earlier, I only saw my mom on the weekends, so during the week I lived with my Uncle Kipp and his wife Marie. My living arrangements were like this since I can remember. Uncle Kipp was a stocky man. My mother and him looked a lot alike in their features, except for the fact that my uncle was very gray at the age of forty one. He was my mothers older brother and an alcoholic like their father. My mom says he acts just like my grandfather, who died shortly after I was born, so I don’t remember him either. Pity I never got to know my grandparents, and I’ve never had contact with my dad’s side of the family, so I don’t even know if I have grandparents still living or not.

My grandparents are not talked about much, especially around Uncle Kipp. He hated his parents, mostly due to the alcohol and the fact my grandmother was so passive, (according to what my mom told me). I guess that is why he married Marie. She too is passive, and as the saying goes, You always marry someone like your mother, or father, whichever the case may be.

Marie was a pretty woman. She was short with a petite build, and had beautiful long dirty blonde hair that hung down past her waist. She was also a God-fearing woman, always going to church every Sunday without fail. I think that’s the only thing my uncle would allow her to do herself, as he was a very controlling type of man. He wouldn’t dare step foot in a church, and he once said that if he did, the place would probably burn to the ground. I figured he was probably right.

Uncle Kipp worked at a factory as well, working long hours in a hot building, and by the time he got home he was usually drunk. Having raised five children of his own, whom were all older, he didn’t feel he should have to raise me too. I was just a burden to him that he wished he didn’t have to tend to.

He demanded I call my Aunt Marie by her first name, and for some reason he had a problem with me calling her Aunt. To this day I still do not know why. There was a lot that didn’t make sense to me when it came to Uncle Kipp.

The house we lived in was a two story, five bedroom farm house. It was run down on the outside, but the inside was fairly nice. There was an old barn out back with a lot of land to go with it. I wanted to have animals, but we weren’t allowed to because my uncle wouldn’t allow pets. It saddened me deeply to not even have a little cat, something I could love and talk to, as I spent a lot of time in my bedroom to stay away from Uncle Kipp. It was pretty lonely sometimes, but the solitude was better than having to deal with him.

When I went home on the weekends, I would usually end up with a baby-sitter so my mom could go out. That was until I turned fifteen. Now she figured I was old enough to stay home by myself. But before, she would pick me up from my uncle’s house on Friday’s, and almost as soon as we got home she would head to the bar, coming home at closing time and accompanied by whatever man was giving her attention that night. My mom too was lonely, but she was looking for love in all the wrong places. I remember how excited I would be to hear her come home that I would race to my bedroom door, only to be disappointed, and jealous to see a man with her. I would go back to bed and cry.

My mom rented a small two bedroom apartment and our bedrooms were right next to each other, with very thin walls. So when my mom and these men would go to bed, I could hear everything that went on. Not only was I crying because she didn’t want to spend any time with me, but because I had to lay there and listen. I would try to bury my head in my pillows and blankets, but the sound still traveled in.

In the mornings my mom would sleep until late afternoon from being hung over. In my anger and disappointment, I would go through her purse and steal her money. There would be twenties and fifties in there that I would take and use to buy my own booze, and eventually turning to drugs as well, to help numb the pain. I never got caught stealing from her because she had drank so much, she never remembered how much money she spent and just thought that she had spent it at the bar the night before. Of course I didn’t tell her any different, nor did I ever tell her that I could hear her with the men she brought home.

When she was actually home, I liked to sleep with my mom because I barely got to see her. We would talk for hours about life, and Uncle Kipp, and she would always tell me she was waiting for a day job to open up at her work so I could come home. She was always apologizing to me for making me live with them, but, until then, I would have to stay at Uncle Kipp‘s. She didn’t like the idea of me having to fend for myself while she was at work.

I‘m old enough to take care of myself?

You‘re only going to be fifteen.

That’s old enough. I know how to cook and clean Mom.

Well maybe on your birthday, you can come home.

That left me feeling nothing but joy. My birthday was only seven months away, and I would be turning fifteen. I couldn’t wait for September to get here so I could get out of that hell hole I was living in.

So during the week, I lived with my uncle and aunt. I would just run through the motions, dreaming about the day I would be free from my current life. To not have to deal with a drunk that was as mean as a bull on crack, and a mouse that was too scared to get out of the way would be the ultimate life. I honestly don’t know how my mom could live like this, but I hated every minute of it.

When I would hear his car pull in the driveway I would race to my bedroom, and Marie would hurry and put supper on the table. She acted like a robot, doing the same thing every night. If she didn’t have supper on the table and waiting, he would throw one of his fits, acting like a child throwing things around, and sometimes hitting Marie. I hated coming out into the fury that would be waiting when she would call me down, reminding me to be silent. You see? We weren’t allowed to eat until Uncle Kipp got home, and there were many nights Marie would sneak me supper because he was too busy at the bar, and too drunk, forgetting about supper let alone coming home early enough so we could eat.

I could hear Uncle Kipp as he would come in screaming, Is supper ready yet woman? Tell that little brat to get down here and eat!, yelling loudly and slurring his words. As we sat at the dinner table no one dared to say a word, because the rule was, you didn’t speak until spoken to. When he was around, I just chose not to speak at all unless I had to. As we sat in silence, or should I say as Marie and I sat in silence as we all ate, Uncle Kipp would complain about his work and the terrible day he had. Day after day this is what we had to endure. Marie would agree with him and pretend to sympathize, while I rolled my eyes thinking I’d like to just throw my plate into his mouth to shut him up. When we were finished eating I would help my aunt clear the table and do the dishes. Every now and again Uncle Kipp would come into the kitchen to inspect our work. If he thought there was a spot on them, or he just wanted to be an ass, he would go into a rage and smash the dish. Then he would smack me in the head and tell me to do it right the next time. I really didn’t like my uncle and could see why Marie was so intimidated by him. She didn’t want to receive the slap I would get.

As you can probably figure out, intimidation makes one fearful and quiet. Marie never said too much the entire time I lived with them. She just did as she was told and never questioned it. She was always helping me with my homework as long as Uncle Kipp wasn’t in a mood about it. Sometimes he would yell at her and tell her that there was no helping me. He was always telling me how I’d never amount to anything and what a hoodlum I was. I was a screw-up and just like my father. I was always worthless to him. Regardless though, I can remember Marie telling me stories when I was younger, especially bible stories, and always helping me with my homework. She was a big advocate on education.

Uncle Kipp would come in and start yelling at us. That little whore! She doesn’t believe in Jesus. She hates Jesus. She’s nothing but a sinner. Jesus hates sinners! If she was helping me with my homework, it was, Don’t bother helping her, she won’t do anything with an education. She’s just like her father!

I tried to tell him to shut up through my tears, but he would just tell me he hated me and to go to bed. If Marie tried to say anything, (because an education and the bible stuff was just something you didn’t criticize), he would just start hitting her, telling her to shut up and mind her business.

If you would just mind your own business woman, I wouldn’t have to do this to you!

I would scream for him to leave her alone, but then he would just started hitting me. Go to bed you little whore. You’re worthless! Go on, get out of here!

I hated my uncle, as I‘m sure you would have too. You’re probably wondering why I never told my mom about him hitting me right? Well let me paint you a picture. My own mother grew up with an alcoholic father, who also beat his