Williams - Believe what you want to believe

Believe What You Want to Believe

First Edition: 2018 March

Believe what you want to believe

George Williams and Alicia Kristine

Edited by:
PENTIAN

www.pentian.com

Plaza de la Magdalena, 9, 3

Sevilla 41001

Spain

Printed in Spain

ISBN: 9788417102104

ISBN eBook: 9781524301200

Layout, design and production:

2018 Pentian, for this edition

It is strictly prohibited under copyright law to reproduce or distribute copies of this book, either totally or partially and by any means or procedures, including photocopying and electronic processing, as well as the distribution of copies under loan, public or private .

Andy Greenhalgh
Jodie Crook
Juan Jos Asorey lvarez
Pentian

You are not a victim for sharing your story. You are a survivor for setting the world on fire with your truth. And you never know who needs your light, your warmth, and raging courage.

Alex Elle.

When I wrote this book it started off as therapy
and then it developed into something much more.

There is solace in breaking my silence. Although
it took me over thirty years to tell my story, my spirit is strengthened from sharing my truth with you.

It all starts with the choice to live on the other side, of not being the victim.

I have been fighting since I was a child; I am not just a survivor.
I am a warrior.

The phone rang on the other end a couple of times. I was only half expecting an answer. But the final ring cut short, and there it was, a voice I hadnt heard in ten years.

Hello... my sister Janie answered quietly.

Did you see the news? was the only response I could muster.

I... I did...

...

That morning started like most Saturdays. I awoke early to the subtle buzzing of the neighbour's lawnmower. It was summertime; the smell of the grass and the heat of the summer sun seeped through my bedroom window. After rolling out of bed and rubbing my tired eyes, I stopped for a second and gazed at my sunburnt, unshaven reflection in the bathroom mirror and thought, How did I get here? I had little time to ponder. Life was moving fast. But for once, it moved smoothly.

Sean, come on. Were going to be late for Anthonys game! my wife Jody yelled up the stairs. She wasnt one to be late. Usually it was me running behind. Youre always a day late and a dollar short! Jody joked at me. Jody was strict, but an excellent mom and my best friend. We had a pack of four kids to rally in the mornings on our way out to sports games and it wasnt always easy to get going. We all hopped into the green minivan and were on our way. Being New Englanders, coffee was a must. Two coffees and some donuts for the kids.

The soccer field was packed with families just like ours. We took pride in watching Anthony play since he was a natural athlete. He handled the ball effortlessly and usually scored a couple of times before the second half was over.

You could tell the other parents were impressed, maybe even jealous. The order of the Murphy kids goes: Abby, Alisa, Anthony and then finally little Annie.

After the soccer game, we headed back home to our little South Boston home. I waved hello to my neighbor Jay as we pulled into to the driveway and we chatted it up for a few. He was blue collar like us and a decent guy. Most of the neighborhood folks were good people and I felt fortunate for that.

Once we got inside the house and all was settled, I sat down in the living room and turned on the news. Thats when the whole day changed. A man, who I hadnt seen in twenty years, appeared on the screen and was being escorted from a plane at Logan Airport. He was in shackles and handcuffs and he was wearing an orange jumpsuit.

Ahead at six, more fallout from Catholic abuse scandals. Panicking, I turned the television off. My skin crawled at the mention of his name. Seeing his face was almost unbearable.

Dinner will be ready in five minutes! echoed somewhere in the distance.

I heard nothing but mumble. My mind was somewhere else. My hands were trembling. Everything zoomed in and my other senses were blocked out. Almost like an out-of-body experience, I wasnt sure where my mind was. Certainly not in the living room.

I couldnt eat; instead I headed for the backyard. I began meticulously collecting all the stray twigs, sticks and branches I could find, transporting them to our wood pile. I took out the weed-whacker, edged the whole yard and destroyed every sprout brave enough to pop up from the garden beds. When that no longer served useful, I rustled through the shed, stacking and restacking chairs that appeared out of order. After a few paces back and forth on the cement around the pool, I was utterly exhausted.

I panted for breath as my mind started to quiet. The exhaustion overrode my ability to think.

My kids heads appeared over the couch and looked through the window blinds at me, beaming with sweat, dirt and frustration. Their eyebrows furrowed with concern but then again they were used to their dad distracting himself through work. As the dirt and sweat dripped slowly down the backs of my arms, I decided a shower might cool me off. I walked into the house and headed straight upstairs without speaking a word to my wife or kids. Why God? Everything was finally perfect. Why?

...

It all came back so fast. My family had no idea. I buried most of what happened in the back of my mind and dare I say, I almost forgot it myself. That news blurb, his face on the screen, changed everything.

That man was pure evil. To say he corrupted my youth, or destroyed my innocence, was an understatement. I kept his name and everything that happened a secret; there was only pain in those memories, and no one else needed a part of it. Its in the past. No one needs to know, I kept trying to tell myself. I stepped out of the shower and stared at the ceiling, but it offered no comfort. The skeletons were coming out of the closet.

I wrestled with the thought as I tried to sleep, but at about one am I finally picked up the phone. I had Janies number scratched in the back of an address book that was buried in the bottom of an old cabinet. The phone rang on the other end a couple of times. I was only half expecting an answer. But the final ring cut short, and there it was, a voice I hadnt heard in ten years.

Hello... my sister answered quietly. Sean, is that you?

I replied, Yes.

Did you see the five oclock news? was the only response I could muster.

I... I did, she winced back.

Janie, Im sorry, was all I could come up with.

We hadn't spoken in ten years but we could easily read each other's thoughts. You're not alone, Janie.

There was an awkward silence. Then holding back tears, she said, I know.

The story I am about to tell you begins in the south Boston suburbs. There was nothing ordinary about our upbringing. We didnt have much but the clothes on our backs and we spent most of our time getting into stuff we shouldnt have with less-than-adequate adult supervision.

My familys house in the early 1970s sat at the bottom of a long, steep driveway covered by trees and was fairly secluded. It looped around into the garage and overlooked a massive front yard covered by the trees and a steep hill dressed in tall weeds. When we parked the car and walked towards the house, we passed a beautiful green apple tree that sat eagerly in the front yard. Entering the porch into the house, the smell of old cigarettes and pine exuded. We had to be careful not to cut our hands with a nasty splinter coming up the railing.