The Killing of Faith (Paperback)

­- PRESENT MOMENT ­-

I‘m not a very good writer. I’ve never even kept a diary. I wanted to get my story down long ago, because people need to know what happened to me. It was just too difficult. I haven’t seen a computer or laptop in years. They wouldn’t even give me a pen, a pencil, or anything to write on. I’m being watched twenty-four hours a day. Everywhere I go, everything I say and everything I do is being monitored. I’m sure they’ll track my thoughts as soon as they figure out how.

I’m not a young girl anymore, but I’m not as old as I look. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of my reflection, and I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become. My once radiant skin is now sunburnt. My beautiful blonde hair is full of tangles and knots. My lips, which were always soft and inviting, are dry and chapped. My hands are calloused, my nails are broken, and my body is covered in open sores. If you look close, you’ll find the only part of me the world hasn’t stolen: my bright blue eyes still sparkle as brightly as ever when they’re not filled with tears.

There once was a time when I had it all—nice clothes,expensive jewelry, a fancy car, a big house, and my beautiful children. Now they’re all gone. Some people say money can’t buy happiness. Maybe so, but it sure can buy away a lot of unhappiness. I don’t need fancy clothes, but it’d be really nice to at least have clothes to wear. I don’t need a big house, but is it asking too much to have a pillow to lay my head on? My children—well, that’s a whole different story.

Now I know why people pray for death. There’s a small, dark place between life and death that few people even know exists. It’s so dark, and it leaves you so helpless and so hopeless, that it sucks all the light from your soul. Death is the only way out.

One day at a time––that’s what I keep telling myself––one day at a time.I still have my faith, so I keep praying that some miracle will come along and save me. Well, at this point, I’d be happy for just a small glimmer of hope.

Where did it all go so wrong, you ask? I’ve asked myself that question many, many times. Things started going badly and then snowballed out of control. Now I can’t go forward, and I can’t go back. Even if I could, how far back would I have to go to end this nightmare and get my life back on track again? This is not the way my life was supposed to turn out.

I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t say everything right. Telling my story will take some time and, quite frankly, I don’t have a lot of time left. For most of my life, I didn't want to accept it, but if I’m being honest, I
have to admit that I might be responsible for the bad things that happened in my life. You see, we’re all a product of the choices we make in life––both good and bad. It’s impossible to understand how I got where I am today without knowing me—the real me.

You’d never believe this if it weren’t true. As impossible as it is to believe, what happened to me could happen to anyone! Where do I start? I guess I’ll start at The beginning.

- CHAPTER 1 -

My brother and I were born and raised in Georgia. I’m a southern girl by name and by temperament. I’m the youngest, and I’ve always been Daddy’s little girl. He hates it when I cry or get my feelings hurt. This is how I first learned the fine art of pouting. It always works like a charm. My mom lays down the law, and my dad pardons all my transgressions.

My parents named me Faith, and I’ve always loved my name. Before I was even born, my dad screwed a wooden plaque to the wall of my bedroom right beside my light switch. It has a little red cardinal sitting on a
flowery branch that read:

 “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.—Hebrews 11:1”

 When I was fifteen, I painted my room light purple, and it was easier to paint around the plaque than to take it down. As far as I know, it’s still hanging there. I must have read that plaque a thousand times, but until now, I never really knew what those words meant.

I was born with everything a little girl could want—blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a sweet little face. My skin is soft and pale, with freckles peppered across my dainty little nose and cheeks. My smile turns heads and melts hearts. I’m the shortest in my class with straight, skinny legs, and no curves. I’ve always looked younger than my age. I hated this when I was little, but it’s worked to my advantage the older I get.

I’m a lot like every other little girl my age. I like to watch television, play Barbies, dress up, put on makeup, paint my fingernails, sing karaoke, roller skate, swim, and play house. Our bikes mean freedom, and the best way to find your friends is to look for the pile of bicycles in front of someone’s house. We ride bikes, swim in the community pool, and skate on Friday night to a disco ball hanging from the ceiling and the Bee Gee’s singing “Staying Alive” through the overhead speakers. We have our whole lives ahead of us, and not a care in the world.

Now I hit my teenage years. I’m growing up in the eighties. I’m not part of any sexual revolution, we have nothing left to protest, and we don’t need mind-altering drugs to discover who we really are. I wasn’t named Daisy, Rosie, Sunflower, Lilly, Tulip, or any other flower. No, my name is Faith, and my name says a lot about me. I wasn’t raised in church, but every time I faced tough times, my dad would say, “Just have faith, Faith.”

A giant twenty-inch color television sits in the corner of our living room with cable, a remote control, and more channels than I know what to do with. MTV plays all day and night, and I dream of being the next MTV
video jockey, Martha Quinn. The highest calling for my girlfriends and me is to shop, and shop, and shop some more, so we live at the malls springing up everywhere. Brooke Shields looks at me and tells me to wear Calvin Klein jeans—even if one pair cost more than my parents make in a week. My shoes have to be Reeboks, Clearasil clears up the pimples on my face, everyone who wears short shorts needs Nair, and there’s nothing more refreshing than a Coke and a smile. All I want for Christmas is a Sony Walkman, so I can listen to Michael Jackson singing Billie Jean. I dress just like Madonna, because we’re all material girls living in a material world. Who could ask for more?

School doesn’t come easy for me. I’m just not good at tests. This fact is confirmed by eight years of bad report cards. I can study twice as long as my brother and make half the grade, although I don’t know if this is actually true because I stopped studying altogether by the sixth grade. You see, school and studying are a complete waste of time. I couldn’t care less what X stands for, where Europe is located on a map, or who fought who in World War II. Why should I? All my doors are opened by my looks, not my brains. No one looks at me and says, “You’re such a smart little girl,” but so many boys, girls, relatives, teachers, and complete strangers remind me again and again how beautiful I am. The only reason I pass from one grade to the next is because some silly boy with thick glasses is happy to spend his whole night helping me with my homework, and because I always get a good look at his answers during the tests.

I may not be smart, but I have what counts the most—I’m beautiful, I’m a high school cheerleader, and I’m desired by both sexes. At my school, you’re defined by who you sit next to, and I sit next to all the cool kids and go to all the best parties. I never learn to face rejection, because I’m the one doing all the rejecting. If I break up with one boy, the news travels at the speed of light, and another boy asks me out before I can change my locker photos. My high school years are the best!

My mother and father both work long, late hours and leave my brother and me at home alone. He’s in charge because he’s one of those boys who never gets in trouble. He studies as if his life depends on it. He does his best, but I know my parents’ work schedule better than he does. I can leave as soon as he falls asleep and be back in bed before my parents walk in the front door. By the time I’m fifteen, I have a cute and innocent face, soft curves, and straight, skinny legs. It’s all a recipe for disaster.

My whole life changes the summer before my sophomore year. If I had to pinpoint the day when everything started going off track, this day would be the day. My friends and I are cruising Main Street looking for boys. For those who didn’t grow up in small-town USA, “cruising” is when you drive up and down the street until you either run out of gas, get hassled by the cops, or park with friends and drink beer. After circling two or three times, we park next to a group of boys from our school who are busy drinking beer. In the middle of the crowd is a new guy I’ve never seen before. Every time I look over my shoulder, this new guy’s staring right at me. He looks older than everyone else, and he’s the center of their conversation. Every time he smiles, I look away. After an hour or so, he walks right up and offers me a beer.

“No thanks––I hate beer,” I reply with a smile, and return to my girlfriends who are drinking wine coolers on the tailgate of someone’s pickup truck.

When we all get back in our cars, I’m sitting by the open window. He comes right up to my door, and says, “Hey darlin’, see you around sometime.”

Darlin’? Did I hear him right?

This is about the most embarrassing thing he could possibly say. I’m mortified. All my girlfriends bust out laughing, and for weeks they repeat, “Hey darlin” and “Goodbye darlin” every time we see him at school.

He’s on my mind all week. I ask around, but no one knows anything about him except that he’s new to our school. The next weekend we stop at the same spot, and he shows up again. He grabs beers from his truck and tosses them around. This time, he walks up and offers me a wine cooler. We spend the evening drinking in the same circle. He pulls out a bottle of tequila, and I take my turn each time it comes around.

“How about another wine cooler?” he asks when mine is almost empty.

“Sure,” I respond with my cutest smile. He takes my hand and leads me to his truck. “

So, what’s your name darlin’?” he asks.

“Faith.”

“Faith...how cool. I’m Jake.”

“Nice to meet you, Jake.”

My head is spinning from the wine coolers and tequila, so I lean back against his truck to steady myself. He takes a step closer and whispers in my ear, “You know, you’re really sexy.”

I’ve been called cute, beautiful, and even hot, but this is the first time I’ve ever been called sexy. It has an older sexual ring to it. We stay by his truck talking, with our friends drinking and laughing in the background.

All my friends want two things: Calvin Klein jeans and to date a senior. Dating a college guy is even better. I’ve had better-looking guys interested in me, but he’s more mature than the other boys at my school, very confident, and he’s got a truck. He’s older than me and just about everyone else in school, because he failed seventh grade (or was “held back” as he likes to call it.)

He takes a step closer, puts his hands on my waist, and sits me on the tailgate of his truck like I’m as light as a child. Without saying a word, he opens my legs wide enough for him to move forward and press in against me. Usually I’ll talk with a boy for hours before one of us finally builds up enough courage for a peck on the lips. Not this guy. He goes right in for an open-mouth kiss. I’m pretty drunk and can’t believe this older guy wants me. I open my mouth and accept what he offers. Anyone at this point should already know what I won’t realize for another three years— I’m in way over my head.

From this day forward, we’re always together. We meet at school, the mall, the skating rink, my friends’ houses, and all over town. He cares as much about school as I do, so we ditch class every chance we get. We find empty classrooms, locker rooms, gyms, halls, and closets that I never knew existed. We don’t spend much time talking and getting to know each other. He’s more interested in getting to know my teenage body. Hand holding quickly turns into kissing, which quickly turns into the first boy to ever put his hands on me. I pretend like I don’t realize the effect I have on him. The further I let him go, the further he wants to go. He makes it really hard for me to stop him. Every time he comes up to bat, he wants to hit a home run. He usually skips right over second base (probably because I don't really have a second base.)

Over the next two months, everything moves forward pretty fast. I don’t dare tell my parents, because I know exactly what they’ll say––or yell. I’m too young, and he’s too old! They eventually find out after we’re caught in the parking lot with my shirt off, and my bra unfastened and about to come off next. We’re both sent to the principal’s office and wait for our parents to arrive. I’m mortified when the assistant principal tells my parents everything right in front of me. He leaves nothing to the imagination, including the part about my naked breasts. Needless to say, my parents hate my boyfriend and demand that I never see him again.

I’m expelled from school for two weeks, and my parents put me on restriction for a month. I can’t do anything. Prison can’t be any worse. I pout and refuse to talk to anyone. My mom stays strong, but my dad ends my restriction after I promise to never see my boyfriend again.

When I made that promise I meant it, but back at school Jake’s waiting around every corner. I do my best to stay away from him, but I’m a fifteen- year-old girl, and the pull is too strong. I miss his attention, his kiss, and I ache for his hands on my body. He catches me by my locker and kisses me for the first time in weeks. Any idea of resisting fades away the minute
I feel his tongue fill my mouth.

On Saturday night, my friends and I park at our usual spot. He parks right beside us. “I thought I’d find you here,” he says, offering me a drink. I take the wine cooler and do my best to hide my excitement at seeing him again.

“I can’t believe those assholes called your parents,” he says.

“I know,” I agree, “my parents are still freaked out.”

He takes a drink of his beer and says, “They need to stop treating you like you’re a baby.”

He knows exactly how to get to me. I’ve been treated like a child all my life, and he uses it, again and again, to turn me against my parents.

“What about your parents?” I ask.

“I’m nineteen. I can do what I want.”

It must be great to be nineteen. I’m almost sixteen, and nineteen seems like a lifetime away. We don’t talk long before he pulls me to him and kisses me. This is the first time we’ve been alone in over a month, and I’m happy to be back in his arms.

After he pulls away, he gives me a wink, and says, “Let’s go for a ride.”

The promise I made to my father repeats in my head. I have an angel on one shoulder, and the devil on the other. I can either remain a child or keep moving forward into adulthood. The angel doesn’t stand a chance.

I jump in his truck and slide to the middle, so I’m sitting right beside him. It’s one of my favorite spots in the world. He holds the steering wheel with his left hand and rests his right hand between my legs. I offer no protest when he pulls into a dimly lit parking lot.

We start kissing again, and he takes a joint from his pack of cigarettes. I never smoked pot before I met him, but now we get high just about every time we’re together. He lights it, takes a puff, and holds it up to my mouth. I tell him I can’t, so he says the same thing he always says when he wants me to follow him: “What, are you a little kid now?”

I hate it when he calls me a little kid. I take one puff and then another. He layss me down on the front seat of his truck, and we continue where we left off. The pot is kicking in, and my head is spinning as he unbuttons
my shirt and kisses my breasts.

“Jake, I’ve missed you so much,” I moan, with his mouth on my nipple.

He unbuttons my jeans and inserts his hand. We’ve known each other for three months, and we’ve been here before. I always stop him before he goes too far.

“I need to have you,” he groans like I’ll lose him forever if I hold out any longer.

I’ve already seen how upset he gets when I stop him, I’m sick of him telling me what a child I am, and I’m high as a kite, so I nod my head, giving him everything he wants. Without waiting a second longer, he quickly slides off my jeans, removes my panties, and tosses them on the floor of his truck.

I always thought I’d lose my virginity on my wedding night to my husband. When I told Jake yes, I was hoping he’d at least drive to some place romantic—maybe a beautiful hotel room somewhere on a big king-size bed covered in roses. Instead, he takes me right there on the front seat of his pickup truck with the parking lot light shining through the window, and U2’s I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For playing through the speaker by my ear.

I already knew I wouldn’t be his first girl––or his second. When he sees the pain on my face, he asks if I’m okay. I nod my head as a tear runs down my cheek.

It’s all over before the song is finished. When he’s done, he sits up and fastens his pants. I clumsily put my clothes back on. The buttons, snaps, and zippers that came off so quickly now feel like a complicated puzzle I have to solve. I find my shirt between the seat and the door, my bra on the dash, and my jeans on the floor. I never find my panties, although I have a good idea who took them. We both sit in his car without saying a word. I have no idea what to say after having sex for the first time. “I love you,” comes to mind, but I feel so stupid saying it. Instead, I don't say anything at all.

I might be a woman now, but after he drops me off at my house, and I’m back to the safety of my bed, I lie with one of my dolls like a little girl. I don’t really know what I expected, but now my head is clear from the pot, and I feel completely alone. It was nothing like the romantic sex scenes you see in the movies. The only pleasure I got was making him happy, and he didn’t even kiss me goodnight when I got out of his truck. I’m just about to fall asleep when the most horrifying thought comes into my mind.

I just had unprotected sex, and I’m going to get pregnant!

When it all started, the pot was hitting me so hard. It all happened so quickly that I never even thought about birth control. It’s hard for me to believe, or even understand, what just happened. I don’t actually remember the night all that well. Is it possible he took care of the birth control without telling me? I want to ask him about it, but each time we’re together, I don’t dare bring it up. There’s only one thing left for me to do. I’ll just wait a few weeks to learn my fate.

 I thought having sex for the first time would be just another small step into adulthood. Instead, I’ve moved into a world I’m not ready for. It completely changes the dynamic of our relationship. I’m sixteen now and I think of him from the time I wake up until the time I go to bed. I even think about him in my sleep. If it made him fall in love with me, he sure doesn’t say it, although he doesn’t have to say it. He must love me, because he wants to have sex all the time. Sometimes I wish we could go back to the days when it was enough just to make out, but that train has left the station. He’ll never go back even if I wanted to––which I don’t. Sex is not only a big part of our relationship, it’s a big part of my entire existence.

My parents never soften their determination that I never see him again, but I’m in love and it’s too late. My allegiance is to my boyfriend, so I lie to them again and again. We sneak away every chance we can. At a time when I should be developing my mind, body, and spirit, I become pretty one-dimensional. My parents are constantly yelling at me, and my school counselors try everything to keep me focused on my grades; but his love is like a drug I can’t put down. I continue to date Jake through my sophomore and junior years. I stay more focused on my life with him than on my schoolwork.

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