Non-fiction / Destroyed by Jayne Sterne (Analysis)
Prologue:
Night-time
It is the darkness I remember most of all. The darkness and
the strangeness of it all.
I am eight years old and lying in my bed. Mum and Dad
are asleep. My brothers, Sean and Stuart are asleep. My little
sister, Mandy, is asleep. All around me is pitch-black, and I
am huddled under my covers hoping that they will protect
me from the hidden terrors of the dark. Night-times have
always been scary for me. Bad things happen at night.
Things that shouldn’t happen.
But tonight I can’t sleep, and morning seems a long way
away. I am in a strange room in a strange house. The people
I am with are strangers and I don’t like it here. My mum
tucked me in a long time ago, gave me a kiss on my
forehead, and whispered, ‘Good night, Jayne.’ But I have
been awake ever since, a jumble of confused thoughts
going round in my head. I have been thinking of home, of
the life I left behind. And I have been thinking about how
happy all the other children seem to be. There will be a
party in two days’ time, with dressing-up, and music, and
cakes. The others are filled with excitement, and I wish I
could share it, but somehow I can’t.
Something isn’t right. It’s not just that I find myself in a
new place, far away from the life I know so well. There is
something else. Someone else. His name is Graham. He has
red hair and piercing green eyes that seem to see right
through me. The grown-ups like him: they like the way he
talks to them, and the way he acts with us children. But I
am not so sure. I am too little to speak up, to have an
opinion about such things, but I don’t understand why he
always seems to be there. When I walk into a room, he is
waiting for me. When I try to find somewhere to be alone,
he turns up like a bad penny, disturbing me with some
made-up question or errand. Occasionally he touches me,
and my flesh creeps when he does. I hate it so much.
When the grown-ups are around he goes out of his way
to help them, and talks to me in that cheerful, friendly,
encouraging voice. Now and then, however, when no one
else can see, I catch him looking at me. I don’t like the
expression in his eyes. There is a deadness there. A flatness.
But when it is just me and him, he changes. He becomes
scary. He shouts at me, tells me I am stupid, that I am
annoying and clumsy and that I am doing things wrong.
That I am naughty and will upset my parents. It makes me
Destroyed
want to cry, and sometimes I do – though not when the
grown-ups are around. It would make them ask what was
wrong, and I know I won’t be believed even if I find the
words for these feelings that I don’t understand.
I close my eyes tightly, praying for sleep to come, to
extinguish my worries and make me feel safe again. And
eventually it does, but not before I am forced to look at his
face in my mind’s eye, to hear his voice echo in my head.
If I had known what he had in his mind, I would never
have fallen asleep that night. I would never have been able to
fall asleep. I would have run straight into my mum and
dad’s room, begged them to let me sleep with them. I
would have screamed and shouted, no matter how much it
disturbed my family and our hosts. But as I sleep, I have no
idea that my life is about to change for ever. Of course I
don’t. Why would I?
What child, in her innocence, could possibly imagine the
things that are about to happen?
What child, in her innocence, could know that grownups
could be so evil?
What child, in her innocence, could begin to understand
why?
As I sleep, he is preparing himself. He knows what is
going to happen. He knows the urges that are controlling
him. He knows the only thing that will satisfy them.
Worst of all, he knows where I am.
He leaves his room in the dead of night. The rest of the
household asleep, he creeps along the corridor. He stops
outside my door. His breath is unsteady with excitement,
and so are his hands. Slowly, quietly, the door opens and he
steps inside, closing the door silently behind him. For a few
moments he looks down at the little girl in the bed, fast
asleep. She will be awake soon, but when that happens he
knows how he will keep her quiet, both for the moment
and in the future.
He’s got it all worked out.
I am allowed a few more seconds of blissful sleep. Of
innocence and ignorance of the terrible things that can
happen to a child.
But then he takes another step towards me. He bends
down and pulls back the blankets. He forces himself on top
of my curled-up, sleeping body.
And so it begins
Through the Window
Remembering the past is like looking through a window.
When I think back on my life, I visualise myself gazing
through that window and seeing the little girl that I used to
be and all the things that happened to her. It’s like looking
at a different person, and at times I find myself wanting to
bang furiously on the glass, attract her attention and tell her
the things I know now. Maybe, if someone had done that
back then, everything might have turned out differently and
the events that followed might not have happened.
But memories don’t work like that, and no matter how
much I bang on that window, the little girl remains deaf to
it, and I am forced to witness every detail of my childhood
as a helpless observer. I find myself wishing I could draw a
curtain, turn and look in a different direction. But that is not
possible.
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Very graphic and intense. I like how you gave both points of view, the girl in the bed and the man in the hall. There is not much I can say to critisize this in any way, it was well written. Perhaps the only thing is a more deffinate line between what the gril is thinking and what the man is thinking. Wonderfully written piece, thank you for sharing it with us.
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I understand the terror and weight of this story, but was confused by the switch in voice from Jayne-the-child to Jayne-the-adult-survivor. The piece feels more voyeuristic more than personal. If you want us to hear Jayne-the-child’s voice, don’t have the voice “tell” about Jayne-the-child: have the voice BE Jayne-the-child.
It was great but disturbing. Well told and flowed evenly thoughout. I have no criticism except the use of the title in the text in the begining. That just stood out a bit and brought me out of the reading. Other than that, best of luck on the sales $$!
Beautiful. It’s a shame what happens to her, what people can do to each other. This story makes you feel for the main character. I ceased to think of her as a character in that short time I read the story and as a real person I was getting to know. This is a very touching and true to life story. Thank you.
I work with sexually abused children, among others. The change in viewpoints is powerful. This leaves the reader hanging as a prologue should. I hope your work gets to the people who most need to see it.
Is this an excerpt? The “Through the Window” section, although seperate, seems overly disjointed from the rest of the piece, at least in the oddly detached first line of it. Very powerful writing here, though, overall. I like your use of repetition to reinforce an image.
Excellent descriptions of the child’s feelings and emotions.I love the comparison used to describe how she sees the strange man:”he turns up like a bad penny”. Very well written. I hope this is not a memoir of your own life. It both saddens and disturbs me that there actually are children being abused like this even as we speak. I will pray for yiuand just know that there is a story written for us all. What we live through will make us stronger and better people in life. Well written.
you have an amazing and strong voice throughout the piece and it left me wanting to read more…and yet wanting to close my eyes and hide under the covers at the same time. for me, the most powerful part is when you allow the reader to go into his room, his head, his intentions:
“As I sleep, he is preparing himself. He knows what is
going to happen. He knows the urges that are controlling
him. He knows the only thing that will satisfy them.
Worst of all, he knows where I am.
He leaves his room in the dead of night. The rest of the
household asleep, he creeps along the corridor. He stops
outside my door. His breath is unsteady with excitement,
and so are his hands. Slowly, quietly, the door opens and he
steps inside, closing the door silently behind him. For a few
moments he looks down at the little girl in the bed, fast
asleep. She will be awake soon, but when that happens he
knows how he will keep her quiet, both for the moment
and in the future.
He’s got it all worked out.
I am allowed a few more seconds of blissful sleep. Of
innocence and ignorance of the terrible things that can
happen to a child.”
this part, reading it for the second time absolutely gave me the chills as i felt like i was watching it unravel before me. brilliant job. i look forward to reading more of your work.
I myself am not a fan of most non-fiction works, however this was very well written. I like the way you ended it with how we can only view or memories through some sort of window as you put it. I often feel this way and am sometimes bothered by that. I like the way you gave the details of the setting, and found it to be an easy read.
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