Today I have a sad story of persecution, fear and physical endangerment. A story of terror which demonstrates the ability of human nature to rise above severe hardship.

Cinderella had two ugly sisters who made her life a living hell. Who were responsible for a reign of terror involving constant belittling, torture and slavery. In a terrifying act of one-upmanship, I had THREE ugly sisters who made Cinderella’s siblings seem like Doris Day clones in comparison, and I had no fairy godmother to help me endure a childhood of brazen harassment and maltreatment.

Not unlike Cinderella, who was subjected to a life of forced labour, I also was expected to bear the full responsibility for all menial tasks around the house. Meal times in our house were completed with a chorus of “May I leave the table?”. One millisecond later, the persecutors would all disappear like David Copperfield’s rabbit. Suddenly there would be myriad urgent tasks that had to be completed while I was left to do all of the tidying up and dishes by myself. These excuses including imaginary homework, non-existent housework and the ever-popular toilet run, where I can only assume terrible bouts of constipation would ensue, because pooping would take an inordinately long time and was expertly timed, so that you could confidently time the sound of the flush to the exact moment when the last dish was put away. The biggest perpetrator of this habit was, of course, Tona, and it was highly suspect that she would take 45 minutes in the loo and emerge leaving behind a series of holes poked into the wallpaper, where my father had cut corners by not cutting the corners, papering around them and leaving a gap of wallpaper that was perfect for little fingers to poke into. It did not take a rocket science to work out what activities were undertaken in the toilet instead of pooping, although my parents never seemed to figure it out. These holes were, naturally, blamed on me, even though Tona’s fingers were like sausages and mine delicate and slender and therefore hole size was an obvious indicator of the perpetrator. However, given Tona was able to fool my parents into thinking she was the perfect picture of innocence, she had only to direct the blame to me, resulting in destroyed wallpaper being added to the long list of reasons why my behind was subjected to severe beltings using any object that came to hand.

On the subject of beltings, these would occur on a regular basis, usually for little or no reason. Such reasons could include singing at the table, whistling at the table, breathing at the table or failing to say “May I leave the table”. Implements used for these beatings included, but was not limited to, big plastic hairbrushes, wooden spoons or any other kitchen utensil with a suitably hard surface, and a special wooden beating paddle made just for the purpose, depicting the amusing illustration of a child with a smarting bare behind. This instrument of torture struck fear into me, although was viewed as a source of fun and frivolity by the persecutors, who were never subjected to beatings of any kind and enjoyed watching me receive a daily thrashing, usually for something that one of them was responsible for. This barrage of constant beatings meant that there was not one brush in our household with the handle intact. You may tease me for having no butt, but I feel certain that your guilt will prevail when you realise now that all of the fat cells in my behind were destroyed in my childhood due to constant pulverisation.

A regular cause for beatings was not coming when called. This would generally occur while I was busy constructing a feat of engineering in the backyard, like a wooden fort, a working rocket, or some such structure. If I happened to be just out of earshot when called and did not run inside at the speed of light within 2 nanoseconds of the summoning, I would be forced to walk in the back door, through the gauntlet that was my mother holding a wooden spoon. Needless to say, this caused much angst and unfortunately I never quite cottoned on to the fact that trying to cover your butt with your hand while being forced to walk past the armed sentinel would only result in having not only a smarting behind, but severely beaten fingers as well.

But perhaps the most traumatic event of my childhood and one which has been touted a victory by the persecutors to this day, was the incident of the infamous rock fight.

Once per year, the whole family would go for a camping holiday on the Murray River. We would all bundle up into the station wagon, the persecutors in the back seat, two dogs in the very back, and me between my parents in the front seat, so as to be in easy reach for regular beatings during the 5 hour drive. During the entire journey Tona would perpetrate the most offensive smells known to man and then blame them on the dogs.

The Murray River was a great place to camp and I enjoyed fishing in the river very much. Unfortunately, over the years the introduction of European carp into the river system all but destroyed the populations of other fish species and therefore fishing became less enjoyable each year.

One particular year, with no fish to catch, the two oldest persecutors and I decided to enjoy a leisurely walk through the bushland. The birds were singing, the sun shining and the smell of the bush enchanting. All was going well until Caroline schemed a way of exacting torture on her innocent brother. We had walked to a place where a dirt road had been built up to traverse a gully, leaving a big dip on either side. Caroline had concocted a brilliant idea whereby two of us would stand in the gully on either side of the road and throw rocks at each other. She cunningly volunteered Carlene and myself to partake in this “game”, thereby ensuring her own safety and exonerating herself from blame for any consequence. Of course, being gifted with significantly more intelligence then the perpetrators, I voiced my safety concerns and insisted on a size limit for the rocks.

The game began innocently enough, each of us choosing small pebbles to throw. Carlene naturally sought to injure immediately by aiming her rocks at my head, while I favoured a more congenial approach, satisfied to simply enjoy the camaraderie and attempt to improve sibling fellowship by purposely throwing my insignificant pebbles wide so as to avoid any accidental injury to my sister, whom I adored despite years of persecution.

This game continued for some time, and as it progressed Carlene’s rock choices gradually became larger while I preferred to observe my self-imposed size limits. I was forced to dodge like a one-legged man in Pamplona while chihuahua-sized boulders were flung in my direction with gay abandon.

Suddenly the fateful moment arose. I was studiously engaged in crouching down to sort through the gravel and choose the smallest pebbles before entering the fray once again. I can only surmise what happened next because I wasn’t watching, however given the result, I can only assume that Carlene had enlisted Caroline’s assistance to roll a boulder the size of a small car into a trebuchet and fling it in my direction. I remember hearing my name screamed and looking up just in time to catch the pointy end of a Getz directly on my forehead.

Needless to say, I don’t remember much after that. I immediately passed out and came to in the car, awash in blood, while being rushed to the nearest hospital in Mildura which was over 1 hour’s drive from our campsite. Only resilience kept me alive despite the sincerest attempts by the persecutors to end my life there, the disappointment in their eyes palpable. Five stitches in my forehead and a lifelong scar ensured that my persecution would remain as a permanent reminder etched into my delicate skin.

The only thing I remember with clarity was my parents discussing potential punishment for Carlene (Caroline’s plan of self-exoneration working perfectly) and the general consensus being that “She had suffered enough”. This perplexing revelation said while I was laying in a pool of my own blood with a gash the size of a piano in my head. Carlene’s punishment was obviously complete when, while I was having my head stitched up, she decided to go fishing where she hit a school of redfin. Therefore, while I was near death and enduring the perfect storm of agony, she joyously caught fish after fish and had to throw almost all of them back due to a completely overwhelming abundance.