My Abyss preview

book preview of My Abyss





My Abyss is a book that will make
you think carefully and reflect on what could be if your life circumstances are
out of control. It is a book not for the faint hearted and contains some true to
life events that may distress some readers. It is however, a story that has to
be told and one which will make the reader think…..what if this happened to
me? What would I do?

Although the thoughts and views
in this book seem partial to reality, they are merely fictional characters and
are not meant to resemble any true persons. Some of the events described in this
book, are adult oriented and graphic. It is not meant to offend or criticize any
cultural groups or victims of such heinous crimes.

In Store Price: $21.00 

Online Price:   $20.00


Format: Paperback

Number of pages:

Genre:  fiction

Tabitha Crain

Imprint: Poseidon

Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2005

Language: English


About the author   

Crain has always had a passion for writing poetry. While in College she studied
Meditation, Literature, Social Issues, and Healing. She was inspired to write
this book as a way of healing some of her wounded memories.

In parts
of the book, she describes how it feels to grow up confused about one’s
identity and purpose.

She also
incorporated fantasy and mystery as a display of how the mind can be deceived by
one’s perception about reality.  Tabitha
Crain is not the author’s real name.




Although the thoughts and views in this book seem partial to
reality, they are merely fictional characters and are not meant to resemble any
true persons. Some of the events described in this book, are adult oriented and
graphic. It is not meant to offend or criticize any cultural groups or victims
of such heinous crimes. I write this book to be thought provoking, and bring
awareness to the types of behavioral modalities, which do exist.


I was running from myself almost all of my life, until he
gave me a different reason to run, him! It was three months after my fifteenth
birthday; I didn’t have much time celebrating towards becoming a woman, until it
was all taken away from me. I never did have a chance to experience what all my
friends had. Not that I wanted to at that time, I was saving myself for
marriage. I knew that whom ever I was going to marry, I was going to have to
accept that they had already been intimate before. Still, I knew it would be
special. I wanted my future lover to court me, first show me I was truly the
only woman on his mind, it would take a long time before I would actually be
able to be in a man’s arms. Once he had shown me that he was deserving of my
intimacy only then would I feel comfortable to expose my heart to him. My lover
would be gentle with me, knowing what I had endured. I would have first fallen
in love with him so deeply that I would welcome his every touch, each one would
make my heart shiver and yearn for his next.

At age fourteen, I would lie in my bed fantasizing about
falling in love someday, and I would write poetry about how this love would
blossom into an erotic yet surreal phenomenon.




Pink is the color that captures my soul

Not as strong as red, the lovers encode

Soft and subtle a constant tone

So pleasing to the eye the sheets we unfold

Sweet and creamy pink rose petals smother your body

Satin pink rose buds, inside the buds blossoms our love

Seeping threw the folds sweet nectar dew

A mystical vision of sugar plum fairies bathing you

Iridescent bubbles capture this mystical dream

Silvery Pegasus gather and play between the fairies

A pale green lake we bathe in this warm spring day

Emerald green fields full of pink tulips and yellow daffodils

Surrounded by lavender hills,

Here it is safe we can both lay




ONE (part sample)


I wanted someone like my father, but without all his rage. My
lover would be strong, both physically and mentally, a drive to protect and
please. Moreover, work hard to raise a family. I wanted a large family, I often
day dreamed about having a large house, and cooking for my family maybe three or
four children.

My mother chose to only have me; she said it was because my
father was always busy, and she had to do all the work herself, I could only
imagine how hard it must have been.

Going back as far as I can recall my father was involved in
martial arts. He traveled back and forth to Bogotá, Columbia that is with his
counterparts. He was involved in the drug trafficking, of cocaine to and from
the United States. He was a bodyguard for one of the larger suppliers. I
listened to his conversations he had with his friends, telling the daunting
tales of escaping and alluring the police many times.

He would travel in a private plane with his sensei and
partner Darren. He would often be gone for weeks at a time.

This meant leaving my mother home to raise me.

When he was home, I tried to spend as much time as I could
with him. I missed him dearly.

I loved to go and watch my father while he would spa in the
gym, with his sensei and sparing partner. I would sit on his sensei’s lap. I
called him uncle sensei I never knew his true name. The gym was upstairs in a
private dwelling. Looking from the outside, you would assume it was an
apartment. I would walk with my father holding his hand as we walked down this
dark alleyway, through a chained gate. We would climb the back stairwell to the
third floor; my little legs would be shaking by the time we had reached the
third floor. Here there was an open floor planned apartment, with hard wood
floors. All that stood from the ceiling was a center support pole. To me it was
huge; I had front row seats to the best karate showing there was.

I was too young to have a concept of what they were involved
in, they were really training to defend themselves and their sensei need be in a
deadly situation. It could get hostile in Bogotá. It was dangerous traveling
back into the United States trying to evade the authorities. They used the
Karate industry as a cover up for their reasoning for entering to and from the
country. They booked competitions this was their ticket into the country and to
the wealth of drugs available.

I looked up at my father’s sensei. He looked wise. At the
age five I thought sensei, meant he had special powers.

“Sensei, may I take karate lessons”?

“No,” he says looking at me, hardly the answer I
was looking for.

He wasn’t very tall, he stood maybe 5’ 6″ and had
long silver hair kept neatly pulled back into a ponytail. He was dressed in a
black; every time I saw him, he was in black. I would look deeply into his eyes
and watch him as he watched my father with a look of approval.

“Why, am I too young sensei?”

“Well it’s not that but we wouldn’t want you getting
involved in this, it is dangerous”.

“But I want to learn to defend myself”; I stood and
threw some kicks out into the air. He laughed.

“It’s up to your father,” he says.

I sat patiently I could not wait for dad to finish.
“Daddy may I take karate?”

“No he says it’s too dangerous.”

That would be his final answer, I knew not to push it any
further, once my father made up his mind, and it was what it was.

My mother loved me going along, it gave her a retreat to get
some of her errands done without having to worry about me tagging with her. My
father would object most of the times about me going, but my mother would get
upset and he would give in. I guess this meant a change of plans of whatever he
originally had planned to do while he was out. My dad did not want me to be
influenced, I would latter learn why, although it seemed I became influenced
without his knowing or approval.

My mother told my father that she was not going to have any
more children because it was not right for him to be always off doing as he
pleased, and not fair to her and I. She also gave him an ultimatum, he stops his
involvement, or she leaves. He met her half way, he promised to stay in the
country to limit his involvement. He knew he could not walk away from all he had
seen and done, he had to ease his way out. Nevertheless, the money was good.

They began running the family business, Plumbing and Heating
Services, which had been in the family for over forty years. However, it was not
easy to find good reliable help. My father went through many helpers, most were
lazy, and some had a liking for “sticky fingers” my father called it.
My father had a rule about that; if he saw a dime on the walkway, he would not
pick it up.

“If it’s not ours,” he would say, “you leave
it there” he would lecture me about not touching anything that did not
belong to me.

“There is nothing worst than a crock,” he would

“The word of the customer is what keeps us in business,
you give bad service, it gets around.”

If my father suspected someone wasn’t honest, he would fire
them immediately. This coupled with his bad temper, made finding good help a


Helder and Tony started to work for the business, and they
learned quickly that if they were respectful and could put up with my fathers
temper, they would be accepted, and taught everything they needed to know.

I looked at Helder as an older brother I never had. He worked
for the business for several years. Although, often times nothing could be done
right for my father I could see the frustration that built up.

“You guys goofed off too much today,” he would say.
Even though they really had not, they were trying to release the tension in the
air. They would play fight in the yard, when they were supposed to be cleaning
the trucks. Overall, he was fair with the guys. Nevertheless, when my father
would rage towards them, I felt what they felt. I guess this was what the
connector was. My Father treated them as though they were family, he talked to
them the same, and got mad at them the same when they did something wrong. My
father fired Tony after the first year, a case of the “sticky
fingers.” He had an addiction to feed, and his paycheck wasn’t enough to
feed an addiction. I don’t think anything was enough to feed this bottomless pit
of desire for heroin. Tony was steeling the copper and cashing it in for
himself. My father kept a barrel in the back yard. After every job, the scrap
copper went into the barrel. Everyone knew this was divvied up at the end of the

With Helder being his only helper now, he relied on me more
to help with jobs and cleaning up the trucks and supply room.

I started to sense something was different about Helders’
attitude towards me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I couldn’t make out
what it was that made him seem different recently. I didn’t know much about his
personal life, and I didn’t want to know either. All I knew was what my parents
spoke about, I would ease drop on there conversations all the time. I knew that
he liked to use drugs, and that he has a girlfriend who has a shady past. I
didn’t want to hear any more.

I was always leery about men I was not sure if it was my
insecurities or if something really had changed about Helder that I was sensing
early on. I thought it might be because, I had heard something personal about
him, and now viewed him differently, in his true light. I would now have to
scratch his name off my list, the list of decent men I had met in life, and this
list dwindled and was near extinction. I started to conclude that maybe this was
how all men were. I hardly contributed it to being abused as a child.

All my fears started as a young child, my father’s best
friend diddled me starting as far back as I can remember, the age four. It was
probably earlier, but I was unable to remember or did I want to open any more
doors to find out. I had a hard enough time closing the doors that were already
stuck open. I often reflected back into my earlier years of life to see where
things had gone wrong, and if I could have changed what inevitably came to be.

His name is Darren, he is about 5 foot 5 and he is a heavy
cocaine user. He had dirty blond hair, with hazel eyes. He was my father’s
partner in crime. I could tell when he was drunk, or high. They smoked pot right
in the house. I would act as though I was busy playing in the other room; here I
learned what drugs were. My father would make me leave the room when it was
“time for the adults to talk” is what he called it. I had a playroom
in the front closed in porch, I could smell the burn of the marijuana seeping
into the front entry. The scent raised my curiosity further, I would peek
through the curtains that hung from the window watching as they got high these
times in the 1970’s that was a normal occurrence.

Any chance Darren got he would make me sit on his lap, when
no one was in the room he would rub my legs and he would rub my private parts
and often time he went further. I was too little to know it was wrong, but I
know I did not like how it made me feel. I told my mother once but she didn’t
understand exactly what I was saying, I was too young to explain to her the
emotions I was feeling, and to describe to her what he was doing that was wrong,
I didn’t know for sure if it was wrong. In my mind, I felt I had told,
although in actuality I had not told enough. It continued for a long time. Until
I started to get older and I learned to avoid him, and got pushy with him. When
Darren came by the house to work on projects, I would disappear. If he looked at
me I looked the opposite way, I made it obviously clear I was avoiding him. He
would try to corner me, I became sly, I sensed him coming and I would shift
towards an exit. I wouldn’t let him touch me at all. The oddest thing about
the whole situation was we had never spoke about it. I avoided all conversation
with him, and didn’t care to engage him in any way. He had conditioned me in
many ways. I closed doors to my emotional side; he had psychologically damaged
me to the point, that he was able to manipulate me in many ways. As I got older,
oddly enough he lost interest in fondling me. Instead, he started to use me to
traffic his products. I guess the mentality behind this was a minor wouldn’t
take a punch the same as an adult would from the cops, and they would never
suspect a child would be dealing either. I hardly looked the part of a dealer, I
had long strawberry blonde hair, and I looked how an innocent child should look.
Narcotics’ dealing was a huge industry and I was dealing large quantities.

He had me pushing cocaine, and marijuana. Often times he
would stop by the house, and his way of getting me away from the house was to
offer me a ride on his Harley. I already new that was the cue and I was not to
refuse ride offers. If I refused, I had already learned there would be
consequences, and he would torture me. When I say torture, I mean he would
subject me to uncomfortable situations. His pet tarantula being one of these
horrid memories I had. One night he came to the house with a glass fish tank, he
said he wanted me to care for his pet tarantula. I sat on my legs on the floor
next to the coffee table; I peered into the tank and watched as this hairy
spider crawled on a branch. At this time I was not afraid of spiders, I had
often carried them around the yard. However, he suddenly had the spider out of
the tank and crawling around on my arm he told me to sit still and let it crawl
all over my body, he told me if I moved it would bite me, and I would swell up
like a balloon. He started to play mind games with me. He asked me, “do you
know what happens to little girls who don’t do as they are told?” and I
replied, “no what happens?” He responded, “don’t do as I say
and you will find out, little girls are worth a lot of money in Bogotá,
especially pretty little girls like you.” I started to recall some of the
storied I had overheard my father tell my mother as they lied in bed at night,
thinking I could not hear them, I remembered my father describing how demeaning
they treated some woman, and tortured them.

Therefore, instead of fighting it I would accept the ride
offer. I would climb on the back of his bike and taken to the drop location. The
drop location most of the times was a crowded parking lot. I would stand there
and wait for a car to pull up. I never knew what the car was going to look like.
I would hand them the bag, which if anyone ever asked me what was in the bag, I
was to tell them it was scallops. He was a scallop fisherman and the outer layer
of the sack was a bag of scallops.

The buyer would take the bag and hand me an envelope. The
first time they handed it to me unsealed I opened it to see what was inside the
fat manila envelope I had been peddling for so long.

I had never seen large sums of money before, this scared me,
and I never touched it in fear of accusations of steeling it.

Darren would swing back and pick me up on the Harley; he
would take me back home, and usually hang out with my father afterwards.


This never really took long, maybe half hour in total.

Darren stored his motorcycle at my parent’s house in the
barn; I guess he only used the motorcycle for this reason I never saw him ride
it otherwise. My parents must have viewed this as a man they trusted, he was
interested in brining me for a joy ride, and something most kids would look
forward to doing. I never disclosed to them what was going on, I always thought
in my mind he would be shipping me off away from my parents. He had me

His dog, Kilo would be waiting at my house for our return. I
would look forward to seeing Kilo; he would greet me at the door. I would give
him half of my lunch and play with him for hours, till Darren would leave, I
hated seeing Kilo go, I wondered if he too was abused by Darren. I swear that
dog understood everything I told it. I told Kilo all of my deepest thoughts and
secrets. About how much I hated Darren. Moreover, all the awful things he did to
me. Dogs can sense, humans fear. I would hug him and pet his back, and whisper
in his ear. He would shake his head to the left and kiss my face, often times
licking my tear .I know Kilo sensed my fear when Darren would come near me.

Darren had been drinking and smoking pot all afternoon. He
was quiet high. He decided to leave and Kilo would not come to him, kilo would
not leave my side. It was as though Kilo had made a decision to stay with me and
not obey him any longer.

“Come on you stupid mutt,” he yells.

I hugged him, “he’s not a stupid mutt,” I said

“Come on Kilo,” he says through his teeth clenched
tightly. Still Kilo didn’t budge.

Darren stepped in to grab him by the back of the neck, Kilo
crouched down in fear, I lunged for him to protect him, I would have given my
life before I let him abuse Kilo as he had me.

I hovered on top of Kilo, and looked up at Darren, my lips
tightly closed, my strawberry blonde hair sprawled over Kilos face.

“Fine,” he says, “fine, you want the
disobedient mutt you keep him.”

He stormed off.

Kilo did not have a mean bone in his body but I knew that if
Darren had attempted to grab him, he would have lashed out, because of wanting
to protect me. I was not going to let that happen, a mean dog would be put to
sleep in my father’s eyes. I would not let that display happen.

Kilo was a mixed breed; he was a medium sized dog, with long
multicolored hair. I had a different colored bandana for him for each day of the
week. Kilo followed me everywhere I went, and always showed unconditional love.

He slept in my bed at night and waited for me to get out of
school in the afternoon. My mother would let him out, and he would wait right
where the bus always stopped.

He would walk with me back to the house. He was highly
intelligent, he responded to several commands, eyes- meant follow me with your
eyes but do not move, attack-, I used that one on my father although he attacked
in a playful manor, he new the difference. Darren had probably taught him these
commands to protect his stash and it was obvious his name was in representation
of what Darren was about, kilo’s of cocaine.

Kilo started to stray every so often. He would go off for
long periods, and return all dirty.

“Dad why does he take off he never did this
before?” My father laughed, “looks like Kilo found a girlfriend.”

“You’ll have to give him a bath, you’re not sleeping
with me all dirty,” I replied as I looked down at him. He had a sad look on
his face. I bathed him and hugged him, I felt bad about scolding him. It really
was not his fault, an animal instinct my father called it. We had plans to have
him neutered.

The next day I went to school, when I returned on the bus,
Kilo was not there.

I thought my mother had kept him inside the house since he
was running all around town and returning dirty. I got in the house and called
him. He did not come.

My father returned from a job, he would often pop in and
check on me since my mother had to go back to work after her lunch break.

“Daddy he’s missing again.”

“He’ll come back, I told you he has a

That night Kilo never returned home. I cried myself to sleep
looking at the knotty pine walls of my room; I could see a knot in the wood that
resembled him.

My father broke the news to me that a car had hit Kilo, up on
the main road; he must have been trying to cross, and was swiped.

I cried so hard I hyperventilated. My father held me, and

“I’ll buy you another dog.”

“I don’t want another dog I want Kilo.” I was eight
years old; this was the greatest loss I had yet experienced. It took me many
years to get over this loss. To me Kilo was not only a dog that loved me
unconditionally, he was the only way I could release all my fears and sorrows.
Kilo was the only one that listened. That night I lit my mattress on fire. I
found some matches in my fathers draw and I hid under my covers flicking one by
one, and watching the lit matches hit the sheets near my feet. Starved from
oxygen they quickly went out. I lit one more and swung the comforter off my
head, it ignited the bed, my father walking up and down the hall sniffing, he
couldn’t find were the smell of sulfur was coming from. He suddenly discovered
the fire on my bed, and quickly distinguished it. I was sitting in the corner of
my room still with the evidence of matches in my hands. He did not know what to
say to me, “what’s the matter with you,” he yells. He screamed for my
mother, she ran upstairs, and found me crying, I was confused, I had no
explanation why I had set the fire. I didn’t even know for my own peace in


My mother always thought I was skittish around men, and this
was my nature. I grew up feeling out of control and confused. I didn’t know
how to express my feeling, and kept them bottled up inside. Now a teenager, I
wrote allot of poetry to try to express my thoughts and feelings and release the
pain and anger I felt. I kept my poetry journal under my waterbed mattress. Here
I thought it would be safe from my parents’ eyes.


Prices in Australian Dollars                                                                    

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