Life with the black demon. Sandra Pasic
those who are not worthy of understanding.
Everyone deserves to live, love and be loved. Everyone wants me to think and pay attention to them, even though I’ve been doing just that all these years. Trust me when I say I can’t do that anymore, I have to think of myself from now on.
All these years I have never thought about myself, because if I had, this story would have seen the light of day a long time ago. I constantly thought about what everyone else would say. People talk even when everything is wonderful, let alone when they can enjoy someone else’s misery. My growing up means realising that humans are the only monsters in this world. There are exceptions, of course.
I never thought about this, but I realised that my father had the number 666 in his date of birth. The Bible says that the number 666 is the number of the “BEAST” or the antichrist or the devil.
I declare with certainty that my father bore a stamp with the name of the beast on it.
As I reached this part of my story, I realised that the title of my book “Life with the Black Demon” with three sixes always coincided with my life.
The black demon, in reality, is my depression, fear, pain, suffering, nightmare, sadness, despair and everything else I had experienced over the years.
And after the story is told, they condemn me. And now, just as before, they condemn me, make fun of me, say it’s not true, that I did it for the benefits, etc. I know it’s all true. And that’s why I will look in the distance with a smile on my face. I want to be content. Everyone deserves happiness, including me, with honour and with my head high. After everything I’ve been through, I want to sail the waves of life!
And no matter what, I am ready to forgive, embrace and to wish the guilty ones to rest in peace, because it is human to forgive. It won’t be my burden anymore...
No matter how dark the night is, it will pass...
The rays of the rising sun awaken hope for a new day of our lives...
Make the most of that day, sail across all the beauties that life has to offer!
Part I
My childhood
N
ight, long and cold. Memories penetrate deeply into my soul. Feelings are awakened. I can’t fall asleep.
I can’t keep this to myself any longer. I have to say what hurts me. I have to begin, but, from where? Begin from where? From the deep dark past that haunts me constantly?
It’s in my dream again.
My childhood wasn’t a happy one. Those were the days of sorrow and misery. Perhaps I was marked, maybe it was only fate, or a test or a lesson for others. Who knows?
My entire upbringing and my childhood are marked. There was no joy, no happiness, and if there was any, it was fake.
Already at the age of four I felt, in some way, that I was going to be one sad child. Even though I was innocent, I only wanted, like every other child in the world, to be happy. Ever since I was little, I felt that no one loved me, though my mother claimed otherwise. I had a sense of rejection in every single way. The heavy burden I carry inside of myself is the burden of sorrow, hatred and loneliness. It tears me apart.
At the beginning of the war, way back in 1992, we moved, or better said we evaded, from Orasac to Bihac… due to the state of war.
I remember that period. I remember the grenades falling, leaving children traumatized for life. Residents of the building we lived in would often stay in hallways, ourselves among them. I remember the cries and screams which provoked fear and trembling in my bones. Much like other children, I was not aware of what was happening.
I know that, every day, I went together with my mother and sister to get food that was distributed to the refugees. I remember going with my mother to the river Una to do our laundry. There was no water, no electricity. Coldness and freezing weather outside, mother had to wash the laundry in the cold water for us to have something clean to wear. I felt sorry for her.
Day by day we lived that way… Days, months went by. Our father was not with us that day.
I heard crying, moaning and groaning from the other room. Wooden accordion doors divided the living room and the kitchen. I didn’t understand anything then, I only remember that mum had a big belly and that she was lying on the floor with so much blood, her legs spread in a gynaecological position, while another woman was kneeling in front of her. It was our neighbour R.V. I was looking confound and I couldn’t understand anything. All of a sudden, I saw a small baby in my mother’s arms. My brother arrived to this world. I was both joyful and sad at the same time, because he would get more attention and love.
During that period, the events regarding my sister are all blurry to me.
Night fell. We all fell asleep. I loved sleeping next my dear mummy the most. I loved her scent, her warmth, I just felt protected next to her and I knew that no one could do me any harm. I was a little girl.
My father kept returning home constantly, but he also kept going away somewhere. I heard my mother say that he was on the frontline and that he had to go to war. Even then, as a little girl, I didn’t feel any bond with my father.
That night the doorbell rang, immediately followed by a knock. Mother went to open the door. Father was standing there with two strangers, a woman and a man. My mother didn’t know those people either. I heard my father swearing at the door and hitting mother. The people who were with him did not even say a word, nor did they try to help my mother. I felt tremendous fear. I shook like a leaf. I was cold, even though the heat was spreading throughout the house from the old stove. My mother kept the fire burning so that it would be warmer for us during the night as well. Still, I was cold.
There was no electricity that night either, only two candles on the kitchen table illuminated the room. Mother was cooking something on the stove, prepared the hors d’oeuvre,{1} all by my father’s orders of course. I remember that I had to sit with all of them the whole time that night. Even though I could hardly keep my eyes open, I couldn’t even dream of going to bed. It was all in vain.
I remember my father’s words:
- Come here you fucking bitch!
Who could he address in such a way to but my poor mother? Mum couldn’t even cry. I watched her tremble with fear and obey father’s orders.
I heard my mother anxiously saying:
- Wait, old man, don’t do that in front of other people, calm down, please.
I went to hug my mother, but I was slapped immediately. He wouldn’t let me approach her even. Those people, strangers to us, did not lift a finger to prevent father from doing this.
I don’t even know what happened that night. Somehow the night passed.
It was dawn. My sister and I went to play outside with the other kids. On our return to the house, we saw that our father wasn’t there. I was happy he wasn’t there. Unfortunately, my happiness did not last long.
Father returned again. Alone this time. Usually, late at night, hell and agony begin for us in the house. He placed plenty of alcohol bottles in front of him, he sat there, cleaning his rifle. Suddenly, for no reason at all, he got up and hit my mother. My sister got scared, of course, as well as I did. My brother lay in a brown wooden crib, still a little baby. The beating started, and then the crying, imploring, begging... It was painful to watch my mother defending herself with all her strength, begging my father to let her go.
I will never forget her words:
- Don’t beat me, I beg you. Don’t let the kids see.
My father wasn’t fazed by it. He continued as he pleased. I couldn’t take it anymore and I said:
- Let her go, father! Don’t beat our mum.
Surprised