The backstory, part 2

By Brent Brents

Read Part 1
Read Part 3
Please know that unless otherwise noted, these entries are exactly as Brents wrote them, including any punctuation or spelling errors. Many of the details he provides are corroborated by medical and psychological reports of his history (see “records“).

-Amy Herdy


These first five and a half years were to me very good. Full of the fun a child should have. I adored my mom and idolized my dad.

My earliest memories, well they were all good accept a few accidents of my own doing. Grabbing the tail pipe of a motorcycle and badly burning my hand. Stepping on a broken bottle cutting my foot badly.

The good was living with my parents who never stayed in the same place long enough to establish a life. For a child i got to see so many beautiful places in the western u.s. I got to see wildlife that most people only see on tv or in books. I played with snakes, worms, fish and bugs like any normal boy. I climbed pine trees and still remember the fragrant smell of tall pine forests and the rotting of the forest floor. I built forts out of cushions and under trees and even a front porch. I played hide and go seek. I was an active independent child i suppose even though I tried to follow my dad everywhere. My best memories of him were of me and him and an ugly old orange pickup and our adventures in it. My favorite was me barely three feet tall and trying to follow in his footsteps (something i now regret) in sixteen inches of snow. What was a child’s dogged determination to be where his dad was and to impress, quickly turned to frustration and fear he would leave me behind. But that giant man came back and carried me. I idolized him. Six foot five-three hundred pounds plus of muscle. The giant who always smelled good, smiled a lot, and whos giant arms were always a safe haven for a small little boy when he needed it. Cledith Ronnie Brents. That man was my hero but like many things in life change happens.

My Dad and Mom both told me years ago that first of all my Dad’s father beat him and molested him when he was a kid. My Mom said her father raped and so did her brothers.

So they did it to me. I wonder if it’s genetic.

My mom was so very beautiful in those days. Long dark hair. Beautiful smile and happy.

I had no understanding of our first sexual encounter when i was just four. But i remember being impatient and wanting to run up the road to where my dad was and see him. Even that first encounter couldnt obscure that little boys zest for life. Besides if its mom its ok, right?

Well as I said he travelled a lot and it was fun. Then in 1975 we end up in Hauchuca City Arizona . And for me 1975 was the year the Gates of hell opened up and swallowed me whole.

I know we were poor, really poor. We were starving, my shoes had holes. But when I turned six one day it was like a light switch went on and i became a sex toy for the two of them. My brother (Brandy) was just an infant. But they found plenty of time for sex with me. The first time he raped me i passed out from the pain. The beatings soon followed. Along with the harsh words. Your worthless, your to small, your weak. Your dumb, you stink. Your draining us. I’ll cut you. I’ll shoot you, you’ll die. Run you little piece of shit. Broken, bloodied and destroyed, each day i became these things and more. The next five years I became what i knew.

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