ChadSang
12-10-2006, 08:46 PM
Chapter Three
Dancing in the Blood
When I was about two years old, in the fall of 1947, we were living in a small house on Cedar Creek Road, just outside of Fayetteville, NC. My mother had decided I shouldn’t be exposed to toy weapons and vowed she would never buy me “any toys of destruction.” A Cumberland County (the county Fayetteville is in) deputy sheriff lived across from us and decided a boy my age out to have a gun to play with. Without consulting my parents, he gave me a real 38-caliber pistol that had the firing pin removed. My mother was furious and made me give the gun back to the deputy
Not long there after, in 1948, we moved farther down the road to a more spacious house on Cedar Creek Road. Shortly after we moved into this house, my dad named me Dynamite. He came home one day with a load of bread. I was in a high chair in the kitchen and I knocked the bread out of his hand in a playful way and every since then, he would call me Dynamite. That’s also about the time he started physically abusing me, but that will be dealt with that later on in “Chad’s Bloody Journey.”
It was during this period I saw the circus for the first time. Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus came to Fayetteville and my folks took me to “the greatest show on earth.” It was like dying and going to wherever you go when you die. I had never seen such sights and loved every minute of the experience, So, I have some fond memories of living there, as well as some unpleasant ones.
I was very attached to my pacifier and was quite upset when my grandmother on my mom’s side of the family took it from me while I wasn’t looking and threw it away. She was visiting us and decided I was too old, at age three, to be sucking on a pacifier. She didn’t understand that that I had this oral fixation and wanted to be sucking on something. My grandmother told me the cat ate the pacifier.
I can remember sitting in the back yard with my dad, around twilight many evenings, and watching as he took aim with a 22-caliber rifle, shooting rats coming out from under the house. That seemed quite normal to me then, but I think I would be appalled if I watched that spectacle today.
My family had an outside dog that was hit by a car and killed in front of our house and it wasn’t until several years later that I was allowed to have another dog.
I’m getting ahead of my self just a bit. We didn’t have a lot of money and raised chicken for eggs and as a meat source. When it came time to kill chickens, my dad would tie their legs to a clothesline. Then he would go down that line of squirming chickens, cutting off their heads with a butcher knife. I began dancing under the blood that was squirting every which way. I would get covered with blood and would lick it off my arms. I would be looking like I was the star in a slasher movie. Of course my dad and mom thought that a bit strange, however, they passed it on to a boy just playing, but I can assure it was much more than that. As long as I can remember I loved the taste of blood. Every time I would get cut or scraped, I would always lick and suck on the wound until the blood coagulated.
After the chickens were all dead, my dad would bring them inside on the back porch. I had to help my mom clean the dead birds. She wound heat water in large pots and pour the boiling liquid in a large tub. When the tub had enough scalding water, my mother would dip the chickens in it, which made picking the feathers off them easier.
In the fall of 1948, when I was three and a half years old, my mom started to work. Since my mom had resumed her career as a schoolteacher, I was taken to kindergarten each day. I became friends with a boy named Jimmy who attended the same kindergarten I did. We loved playing together, alternately at his house or at my house. One day while we were playing cowboys and Indians, he accidentally shot me in the eyebrow with a BB gun (I beat losing an eye). Both of us tried to make up some outrageous lie about how it happened, but our parents just didn’t believe us. I was being loyal to my friend and didn’t want him to get into trouble.
While attending kindergarten, I experienced two very embarrassing moments. Once when we were fed sauerkraut and I threw up all over a bunch of other kids. Then one day I shit in my pants and was so embarrassed about that, I didn’t tell anyone. I just went around all day with my pants full of shit. No doubt the other kids avoided me that day because of the noxious odors emanating from my clothes.
An old African-American woman lived in a small shack, about 100 yards behind our house. I used to sneak away to her house because she always had delicious food and would always insist that I eat something. Nothing fancy, mind you, but I sure did like it. She would take a cold biscuit and punch a hole in it with her finger and fill the cavity in the biscuit with Grandma’s Molasses. With a bowl of cold field peas, my molasses biscuit and a glass of fresh milk, I was in heaven, so to speak. That’s the test of a good biscuit, you know. If it tastes just as good cold as it does hot, you’ve got a winner.
I had to sneak off to this woman’s house because of my dad’s racist views. According to him, black people were OK as long as they stayed in their proper place. It certainly wasn’t acceptable to visit a black person’s house or to eat their food. That concept never did make any sense to me. I guess I was beginning to show my rebellious tendencies. Yeah, I was a rebel child all my life and still am. Never have been to color inside the lines and I think rules suck. Still caught up in the 60s and 70s I guess but also I’m up my ass in modern music. I just got Goldfrapp’s Superhuman and love the CD.
As the days passed, I became friends with a neighborhood boy, Joe, who was about 6 years older than I was. I was four and he was 10. Joe’s father was a dairy farmer. Now I don’t remember, but my dad caught Joe inside of the barn having sex with me. I wish I could remember that event, but try as I may, no memories will come back to me. Around the same time, another neighborhood boy and I played with each other in a barn behind our house. He told his sister and she told her mother and she told my mother and I got the living shit beat beat out of me. My parents kept me at home instead of letting me go to school. That was because of the black eye I had. My parents wanted to wait until I looked a little better They were very secretive about the vicious beatings I got from him. They would keep me out of school because everyone would know I had been beaten. Now as I think about it, that was a precursory event to the violent behavior of my dad beginning very early but when I was eight years old it really increased
We took a trip to Raleigh, the state capital, one day when I was 5 years old. I don’t remember the circumstances, but my sister and I were walking down a sidewalk. I have no idea where my parents were. As we crossed an intersection on a green light, a car turned the corner and ran over me. The car knocked me down and went over me without running the tires over me (beating death #2). The police were called and I got to ride to the hospital in the policeman. This was really a big deal to me and I can remember begging the police officer to turn on the siren so I could hear it, so he obliged me. As it turned out my collarbone was broken and I wound up in a very uncomfortable cast for the summer. That thing was so hot and it made my skin itch underneath the cast. I was miserable all summer.
Christmas of 1950 was a bonanza for me. Santa Claus was very generous that year. My parents brought me enough toys for six kids. The two bonanzas for me were an Army uniform and a “Shapleigh’s Racer” red wagon. The wagon was filled with all sorts of goodies such as a finger paint set, a toy gun and holster, a huge gingerbread man, a necktie, a large candy cane, clothes and other assorted presents. I wanted to wear that uniform everywhere. I guess in all the post-war pride, I was thrilled to have my own Army garb.
By the time I was six years old and ready for the first grade, my family moved to Fayetteville, near what is now Tallywood Shopping Center. My dad was pastor of several country churches and my mother taught 7th grade at a school in a little community known as Stedman. That’s where I went to school through the third grade. Between first and third grades, I took piano lessons and even played in a piano recital in the third grade.
In the fall of 1951, I entered the first grade and did well in school. My mom was afraid they’d have trouble with me in school. I was forever into something I shouldn’t have been into at home and OMG, I got enough spankings/beatings for a dozen boys.
During the three years we lived on Willborough Avenue, several things happened that had a significant impact on me. I smoked my first cigarette for the first time and I witnessed domestic violence for the first time, not counting the abuse I was getting, even if I farted. One afternoon a neighborhood boy about the same age as me came over to my house. He said he had a cigarette he stole from his dad and asked me if I wanted to try it with him. We were afraid of being caught doing such a thing, so we both crawled inside a dog house in my back yard and tried smoking that cigarette. My mom caught us, sent the other boy home and whipped my ass with a big switch. I think the other boy and I became a bit ill as a result of our experimentation and decided that was not for us.
I guess my mom was a bit confused when I started asking for all types of liquids and foods that were white because I thought you had to eat certain things to produce biological evidence. I wanted so much to be able to do what that boy had done that afternoon, but of course I had to wait about six years before I could perform that amazing feat.
A couple with a small child lived in the house next to us. I can remember being frightened when the husband would go on a drinking binge and began beating his wife. Many nights I could hear the screaming and yelling and objects being thrown next door and this upset me greatly. I couldn’t understand why two people would act like this. Eventually the family moved and this brought a sigh of relief to me. Little did I know I would continue to be beaten until I was 14 years old. I experienced my own domestic violence against me in the future. Back in those was no Social Services and help was non existent.
I saw my first motion picture in 1953. My sister had a date one night with some guy and I begged her to let me go with them to the movies. Although reluctant, she granted my wish. A double feature was showing at the inside movie theatre (not a drive-in movie). The main feature was The House of the Wax. This simplified, but lavish remake of a 1933 melodrama was the most financially successful 3D production of the 50s. This was Vincent Price‘s first full-fledged horror role The second feature was about 20+ years old and it was Dracula. The 1931 movie called “a landmark horror performance” was an adaptation of Bram Stoker‘s classic vampire novel. From that point on I just knew I was a vampire and I knew I had to always keep that a secret. I didn’t buy into the silver bullets, garlic, wooden stakes, etc, but I just knew I was a vampire because of my love for blood
I made up some lie every time I would have sex with another boy. I would tell them we needed to make a slight cut on them so I can have some blood before I would do what they wanted. A bit of you know what and suck your blood. Try it for me, it won’t hurt a bit. Believe it or not, that excuse has worked for me for many, many years, right on up until the present day. Guess I have just been lucky and mesmerized all those people into believing it was just blood play and a tad bit kinky. I have never harmed or caused anyone trauma because of this. Hell, I’ve sucked the milk and other stuff out of a thousands cows.
In the summer of 1954, when I was nine years old and ready to enter the fourth grade, my dad was called to be the preacher at a small country church in Sampson County. This very rural area was known as Beaver Dam. The closest town was Roseboro, about 20 miles away. My mom got a job teaching at the school in Roseboro, and that’s where I attended 4th, 5th and 6th grades. I was a pretty good student, always making A’s and B’s on my report card. Teachers would comment on my report card that I liked to talk too much.
The house we lived in at Beaver Dam was a small, two-bedroom structure that sat about 75 yards from the Beaver Dam Baptist Church. It was about 3 miles from where the blacktop ends, on a dirt road. There were no other houses in sight and the closest neighbors, the Hales family, lived about a quarter mile away. Shine Hales was about two years older than me and we became friends (and I use that term loosely) shortly after we moved there. He was the only kid for miles around, and I really didn’t have any choice in playmates.
My sister and I were never really close siblings. I guess that was because she was 10 years older than me. Shortly after we moved to Beaver Dam, she graduated from high school and went off to pursue higher education at Campbell College, a Baptist run college. They got big headed and so it’s now called Campbell University. The college was in Buies Creek, NC.
She met a guy there named Milton. Since he and his family were Catholic, he definitely was not on my dad’s approval list. He believed if you weren’t Baptist you would all go to hell in a hand-basket. Apparently they became madly in love and ran away to South Carolina and got married (wedding rules were more relaxed in South Carolina and you could go down there and get married in one day). It was sometime before my sister told my parents what they had done. Shortly after they married, my family took a vacation to Florida. So, my sister spent her honeymoon in Florida with me and my parents.
Photos (left to right)
1. An exact duplicate of my most favorite toy I ever had as a kid. Now I have a whole wall full of John Deere tractors.
2. Me and my sister upon her graduation from high school.
3. Me at age 4 telling Santa to bring me BLOOD or I'd squeeze his nuts off!
4. Me practicing for my third grade piano recital.
5. Me with my bonanza of Christmas toys.
Dancing in the Blood
When I was about two years old, in the fall of 1947, we were living in a small house on Cedar Creek Road, just outside of Fayetteville, NC. My mother had decided I shouldn’t be exposed to toy weapons and vowed she would never buy me “any toys of destruction.” A Cumberland County (the county Fayetteville is in) deputy sheriff lived across from us and decided a boy my age out to have a gun to play with. Without consulting my parents, he gave me a real 38-caliber pistol that had the firing pin removed. My mother was furious and made me give the gun back to the deputy
Not long there after, in 1948, we moved farther down the road to a more spacious house on Cedar Creek Road. Shortly after we moved into this house, my dad named me Dynamite. He came home one day with a load of bread. I was in a high chair in the kitchen and I knocked the bread out of his hand in a playful way and every since then, he would call me Dynamite. That’s also about the time he started physically abusing me, but that will be dealt with that later on in “Chad’s Bloody Journey.”
It was during this period I saw the circus for the first time. Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus came to Fayetteville and my folks took me to “the greatest show on earth.” It was like dying and going to wherever you go when you die. I had never seen such sights and loved every minute of the experience, So, I have some fond memories of living there, as well as some unpleasant ones.
I was very attached to my pacifier and was quite upset when my grandmother on my mom’s side of the family took it from me while I wasn’t looking and threw it away. She was visiting us and decided I was too old, at age three, to be sucking on a pacifier. She didn’t understand that that I had this oral fixation and wanted to be sucking on something. My grandmother told me the cat ate the pacifier.
I can remember sitting in the back yard with my dad, around twilight many evenings, and watching as he took aim with a 22-caliber rifle, shooting rats coming out from under the house. That seemed quite normal to me then, but I think I would be appalled if I watched that spectacle today.
My family had an outside dog that was hit by a car and killed in front of our house and it wasn’t until several years later that I was allowed to have another dog.
I’m getting ahead of my self just a bit. We didn’t have a lot of money and raised chicken for eggs and as a meat source. When it came time to kill chickens, my dad would tie their legs to a clothesline. Then he would go down that line of squirming chickens, cutting off their heads with a butcher knife. I began dancing under the blood that was squirting every which way. I would get covered with blood and would lick it off my arms. I would be looking like I was the star in a slasher movie. Of course my dad and mom thought that a bit strange, however, they passed it on to a boy just playing, but I can assure it was much more than that. As long as I can remember I loved the taste of blood. Every time I would get cut or scraped, I would always lick and suck on the wound until the blood coagulated.
After the chickens were all dead, my dad would bring them inside on the back porch. I had to help my mom clean the dead birds. She wound heat water in large pots and pour the boiling liquid in a large tub. When the tub had enough scalding water, my mother would dip the chickens in it, which made picking the feathers off them easier.
In the fall of 1948, when I was three and a half years old, my mom started to work. Since my mom had resumed her career as a schoolteacher, I was taken to kindergarten each day. I became friends with a boy named Jimmy who attended the same kindergarten I did. We loved playing together, alternately at his house or at my house. One day while we were playing cowboys and Indians, he accidentally shot me in the eyebrow with a BB gun (I beat losing an eye). Both of us tried to make up some outrageous lie about how it happened, but our parents just didn’t believe us. I was being loyal to my friend and didn’t want him to get into trouble.
While attending kindergarten, I experienced two very embarrassing moments. Once when we were fed sauerkraut and I threw up all over a bunch of other kids. Then one day I shit in my pants and was so embarrassed about that, I didn’t tell anyone. I just went around all day with my pants full of shit. No doubt the other kids avoided me that day because of the noxious odors emanating from my clothes.
An old African-American woman lived in a small shack, about 100 yards behind our house. I used to sneak away to her house because she always had delicious food and would always insist that I eat something. Nothing fancy, mind you, but I sure did like it. She would take a cold biscuit and punch a hole in it with her finger and fill the cavity in the biscuit with Grandma’s Molasses. With a bowl of cold field peas, my molasses biscuit and a glass of fresh milk, I was in heaven, so to speak. That’s the test of a good biscuit, you know. If it tastes just as good cold as it does hot, you’ve got a winner.
I had to sneak off to this woman’s house because of my dad’s racist views. According to him, black people were OK as long as they stayed in their proper place. It certainly wasn’t acceptable to visit a black person’s house or to eat their food. That concept never did make any sense to me. I guess I was beginning to show my rebellious tendencies. Yeah, I was a rebel child all my life and still am. Never have been to color inside the lines and I think rules suck. Still caught up in the 60s and 70s I guess but also I’m up my ass in modern music. I just got Goldfrapp’s Superhuman and love the CD.
As the days passed, I became friends with a neighborhood boy, Joe, who was about 6 years older than I was. I was four and he was 10. Joe’s father was a dairy farmer. Now I don’t remember, but my dad caught Joe inside of the barn having sex with me. I wish I could remember that event, but try as I may, no memories will come back to me. Around the same time, another neighborhood boy and I played with each other in a barn behind our house. He told his sister and she told her mother and she told my mother and I got the living shit beat beat out of me. My parents kept me at home instead of letting me go to school. That was because of the black eye I had. My parents wanted to wait until I looked a little better They were very secretive about the vicious beatings I got from him. They would keep me out of school because everyone would know I had been beaten. Now as I think about it, that was a precursory event to the violent behavior of my dad beginning very early but when I was eight years old it really increased
We took a trip to Raleigh, the state capital, one day when I was 5 years old. I don’t remember the circumstances, but my sister and I were walking down a sidewalk. I have no idea where my parents were. As we crossed an intersection on a green light, a car turned the corner and ran over me. The car knocked me down and went over me without running the tires over me (beating death #2). The police were called and I got to ride to the hospital in the policeman. This was really a big deal to me and I can remember begging the police officer to turn on the siren so I could hear it, so he obliged me. As it turned out my collarbone was broken and I wound up in a very uncomfortable cast for the summer. That thing was so hot and it made my skin itch underneath the cast. I was miserable all summer.
Christmas of 1950 was a bonanza for me. Santa Claus was very generous that year. My parents brought me enough toys for six kids. The two bonanzas for me were an Army uniform and a “Shapleigh’s Racer” red wagon. The wagon was filled with all sorts of goodies such as a finger paint set, a toy gun and holster, a huge gingerbread man, a necktie, a large candy cane, clothes and other assorted presents. I wanted to wear that uniform everywhere. I guess in all the post-war pride, I was thrilled to have my own Army garb.
By the time I was six years old and ready for the first grade, my family moved to Fayetteville, near what is now Tallywood Shopping Center. My dad was pastor of several country churches and my mother taught 7th grade at a school in a little community known as Stedman. That’s where I went to school through the third grade. Between first and third grades, I took piano lessons and even played in a piano recital in the third grade.
In the fall of 1951, I entered the first grade and did well in school. My mom was afraid they’d have trouble with me in school. I was forever into something I shouldn’t have been into at home and OMG, I got enough spankings/beatings for a dozen boys.
During the three years we lived on Willborough Avenue, several things happened that had a significant impact on me. I smoked my first cigarette for the first time and I witnessed domestic violence for the first time, not counting the abuse I was getting, even if I farted. One afternoon a neighborhood boy about the same age as me came over to my house. He said he had a cigarette he stole from his dad and asked me if I wanted to try it with him. We were afraid of being caught doing such a thing, so we both crawled inside a dog house in my back yard and tried smoking that cigarette. My mom caught us, sent the other boy home and whipped my ass with a big switch. I think the other boy and I became a bit ill as a result of our experimentation and decided that was not for us.
I guess my mom was a bit confused when I started asking for all types of liquids and foods that were white because I thought you had to eat certain things to produce biological evidence. I wanted so much to be able to do what that boy had done that afternoon, but of course I had to wait about six years before I could perform that amazing feat.
A couple with a small child lived in the house next to us. I can remember being frightened when the husband would go on a drinking binge and began beating his wife. Many nights I could hear the screaming and yelling and objects being thrown next door and this upset me greatly. I couldn’t understand why two people would act like this. Eventually the family moved and this brought a sigh of relief to me. Little did I know I would continue to be beaten until I was 14 years old. I experienced my own domestic violence against me in the future. Back in those was no Social Services and help was non existent.
I saw my first motion picture in 1953. My sister had a date one night with some guy and I begged her to let me go with them to the movies. Although reluctant, she granted my wish. A double feature was showing at the inside movie theatre (not a drive-in movie). The main feature was The House of the Wax. This simplified, but lavish remake of a 1933 melodrama was the most financially successful 3D production of the 50s. This was Vincent Price‘s first full-fledged horror role The second feature was about 20+ years old and it was Dracula. The 1931 movie called “a landmark horror performance” was an adaptation of Bram Stoker‘s classic vampire novel. From that point on I just knew I was a vampire and I knew I had to always keep that a secret. I didn’t buy into the silver bullets, garlic, wooden stakes, etc, but I just knew I was a vampire because of my love for blood
I made up some lie every time I would have sex with another boy. I would tell them we needed to make a slight cut on them so I can have some blood before I would do what they wanted. A bit of you know what and suck your blood. Try it for me, it won’t hurt a bit. Believe it or not, that excuse has worked for me for many, many years, right on up until the present day. Guess I have just been lucky and mesmerized all those people into believing it was just blood play and a tad bit kinky. I have never harmed or caused anyone trauma because of this. Hell, I’ve sucked the milk and other stuff out of a thousands cows.
In the summer of 1954, when I was nine years old and ready to enter the fourth grade, my dad was called to be the preacher at a small country church in Sampson County. This very rural area was known as Beaver Dam. The closest town was Roseboro, about 20 miles away. My mom got a job teaching at the school in Roseboro, and that’s where I attended 4th, 5th and 6th grades. I was a pretty good student, always making A’s and B’s on my report card. Teachers would comment on my report card that I liked to talk too much.
The house we lived in at Beaver Dam was a small, two-bedroom structure that sat about 75 yards from the Beaver Dam Baptist Church. It was about 3 miles from where the blacktop ends, on a dirt road. There were no other houses in sight and the closest neighbors, the Hales family, lived about a quarter mile away. Shine Hales was about two years older than me and we became friends (and I use that term loosely) shortly after we moved there. He was the only kid for miles around, and I really didn’t have any choice in playmates.
My sister and I were never really close siblings. I guess that was because she was 10 years older than me. Shortly after we moved to Beaver Dam, she graduated from high school and went off to pursue higher education at Campbell College, a Baptist run college. They got big headed and so it’s now called Campbell University. The college was in Buies Creek, NC.
She met a guy there named Milton. Since he and his family were Catholic, he definitely was not on my dad’s approval list. He believed if you weren’t Baptist you would all go to hell in a hand-basket. Apparently they became madly in love and ran away to South Carolina and got married (wedding rules were more relaxed in South Carolina and you could go down there and get married in one day). It was sometime before my sister told my parents what they had done. Shortly after they married, my family took a vacation to Florida. So, my sister spent her honeymoon in Florida with me and my parents.
Photos (left to right)
1. An exact duplicate of my most favorite toy I ever had as a kid. Now I have a whole wall full of John Deere tractors.
2. Me and my sister upon her graduation from high school.
3. Me at age 4 telling Santa to bring me BLOOD or I'd squeeze his nuts off!
4. Me practicing for my third grade piano recital.
5. Me with my bonanza of Christmas toys.