Bent . . . Not . . . Broken
A Story of Survival
by
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On a previous day, while I was alone in the apartment, they had left an ash tray filed with cigarette butts and burnt wooden matches sitting on the edge of the table. I had tried eating butts before but did not like the taste of the tobacco, but because I was so hungry I had sucked the heads off the matches. To my amazement I found that I liked the sulfur taste, but it made my belly hurt. At the same time I had also found a beer bottle, sitting on the radiator, with a little beer still inside. Drinking it I could feel a cigarette butt as it slide down my throat. By this time I was use to them so I kept drinking. Sitting on the blanket on the floor in nothing but an old pair of soiled underwear I could see the rope tied to my ankle. It wasn’t real tight, and I had tried many times, I was never able to get it untied. The other end was tied to a radiator I had come to hate.
I was lying on that old blanket, watching them play cards while holding that empty beer bottle I had been playing with. I was just about to fall asleep when one of the women yelled a curse and I heard a dish hit the floor with a crash. Looking up I saw half of a sandwich lying there, amongst the broken pieces, between me and the table. Nobody was paying any attention to it. Instead of standing up, I started inching forward on all fours. At that moment I saw a flash of grey and heard the gnashing of teeth. Looking up I saw the biggest rat I had ever seen, just inches from my face. He was standing over that sandwich. His blood shot, dark red, dead looking eyes stared back at me. His large yellow stained teeth were chattering so fast they were just a blur. Every hair was bristling as his body shook uncontrollably. He was just daring me. I grabbed that beer bottle, swung it hard, knocking that rat across the room and reached for that sandwich. At that moment one of the males reached down, hit me in the face with the back of his hand, knocking me back onto my dirty blanket. He picked up the sandwich, took a bite, laughed and kept on playing cards. That was not my first or last run-in with rats or backhands. Thinking back, I now know that is the only memory I have of my birth mother.
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About the Book
The author confronts the memory of his toxic family and horrific childhood in Bent … Not … Broken.
He thought his life would get better after entering foster care, but it wasn’t much better than where he had been living.
Mr. Gibson chain-smoked cigarettes, and Miss Agnes always smoked nasty cigars. Whenever he had to walk into the smoky room, he coughed profusely. Every two days, some kid delivered beer to them, which they drank morning to night.
While he’d eventually be introduced to a new mama and other family members and move to Mayville, Louisiana, life would continue to deal him pain.
But while he’d receive scars and wounds, the obstacles propelled him to new levels of courage—and in his memoir, he shares how an inner voice guided him—whether he was in the classroom, serving in Vietnam, battling an addiction to alcohol, or working as a civilian.
Join the author as he confronts the demons of his past and looks back at overcoming the odds to enjoy a happy family life and multiple successful careers.
About the Author
J. C. King grew up in the deep South and served in the Navy during the Vietnam War. He earned a bachelor’s degree in law enforcement from Northeastern University. In 1974, he joined a police force and became a sergeant of detectives, retiring in 1991. He went on to become a licensed private investigator, certified clinical/forensic hypnotherapist with the national Guild of Hypnosis and a nondenominational minister with the Congregational Church of Practical Theology. After retiring again in 2002, he became a security officer for a local university before retiring yet again. He spends his winters in Bokeelia, Florida, boating, fishing, relaxing, and writing.