16919901 Murder in Eugene

8/14/2019 16919901 Murder in Eugene

1/15

Chapter One.


2/15

Chapter One.

THE BEGINNING:

It is a crisp fall day here in Eugene, Oregon, the town inwhich I have lived all my past six years, and will continue to livein until I am old enough to leave. This time of year is differenteach season. The Oregon rains can spatter about, or be still tolet summer have a last glance. Autumn is as unpredictable as itis beautiful, here in this quiet city of often rain and sometime

sun. My name is Martha. Today is September 6th, 1967. I amsix years old about to turn seven years old in a few months. Itis my first day of school in the second grade at Silver LeaElementary. My hell is still just a small warm flame, a child-firethat has not yet truly began to burn. I am today, at least for afew moments a smiling and happy child, even if I feel asqueamish hesitation at the thought of going to this school forthe first time.

At this moment though, as I walk down the street to mynew school, my small ivory white hand clenched tight in my

mothers, I am blissfully unaware that this day, in this newschool, is about to lead me into a hell of torment, of which I willbarely survive.


3/15

Chapter One.

Our street is lined with massive maple trees and I see thegreen summer-moist leaves as they cling hopelessly tobranches getting sparse and stiff, like old women clinging tothe fading of their youth, their fuzzy undersides now no longervelvety soft as a newborn lamb's ear. Freshly brown and deadleaves, seated deep with veins of crimson hues lie about inclusters. The colors cry out like a silent death blood for the restof the leaves to tumble down to join them in their decay.

I am starting second grade in this new school, which is

right down at the end of my street, which is Armstrong. Thenyou cross over Grove Street into a small field of grass. It'sactually about four or so bare lots, filled with tall billowyunkempt grasses and small animals of sorts. It will be overtwenty years before the fields become filled with new homes,so for now the children can cross the fields, chase little brownrabbits along the way and then go through the chain link gatewhich empties onto the back of the school.

I attended River Road Baptist School on River Road forkindergarten and first grade, starting a year too earlytechnically, but was ahead for my age reading wise, starting to

read at age two. My mother had permission from the directors,to start me early. However, now, as I was going to the secondgrade, the cost was not even remotely possible due to myfather's commitment to a mental ward. It's hard to keep yourjob when you're in a straightjacket, so I now had to go to SilverLea Elementary.


4/15

Chapter One.

It is unbearably hard to leave River Road Baptist School,and especially my best friend Lonnie Higgins. She and I wereinseparable there, and it has been what was still possibly to be,the happiest two years of my life. Truly though, I had no badexpectations today. School is fun for me, and I had lots offriends at my other school.

My mom had been room mother, and she always broughtamazing cupcakes. She smiled a lot then. She wore pretty redlipstick and pretty clothes, and was still slender and vibrant,

with her hair always freshly done in soft chestnut pin-curls. Ihad nice clothes, and wore lots of new dresses with shiny newpatent leather shoes. My parents had enough money for me tobe taken for hamburgers and French fries, and thick chocolatemilkshakes at the "Flying Scot" hamburger diner just down theroad, almost each day. I participated in everything, and gotgood grades. It was an utterly joyous time for me there at RiverRoad Baptist School..

Yes, I know there was bad-scary things going on ofcourse with my father, and changing schools is not what Iwanted. No, I did not want this at all. But the tears and pleas of

a six year old girl, are met with a cold indifference from asuddenly quiet mother who had other worries of course. So no,I had no idea I was about to go from this life of laughter andfriends, and a normal (sometimes at least until now) family, intoa period of over 10 years of torture and teasing of which youcould not imagine, except that its true and I did more thanimagine it. I lived it.


5/15

Chapter One.

We enter the small classroom. All eyes are on us. Whymy mother chose to bring me late, after class had started Ihave no idea. Parents don't really think these things matter Isuppose. They do matter very much to a six year old. My mopof fire-bright red hair announces me silently in the crowd ofdark heads and dark souls. My hair shouts out the fact that Iam different. It will soon draw this anger to me, as if to say"How dare you be different?"

My name is Martha. Today is June 4th, 2009. A typically

warm California day, spent wholly on the 1-5 finally drivinghome to Santa Clarita, California from a national Maltese dogshow in Vancouver, Washington. I have shown and bredMaltese now for the past six years. The dog ring is filled withpolitical intrigue, secrets, and suspense. Back-stabbing iswhispered about, yet I have not experienced the feel of a sharpmental shiv thrust into my vulnerable weak spine. his is mostlikely due to the fact that I am still considered a novice afteronly six years, I have few dogs, and am not a threat to anyone.I am lucky to have my dogs out of the best possible lines, butthat was pure luck.

The four hectic days are over and in my circle of friends,Kathy Sanguinet's Dog, Danielle was crowned number two inthe nation. It was a hard win, and Kathy has worked tirelesslywith this dog. Danielle is a royal beauty with a long aristocraticneck, and striking face that is bold and proud, demanding yourattention. Her eyes are black with fire and fierceness. Her coatis silken and flows past the ground, moving in ocean like wavesof a pure white molten metal. Five pounds of perfect beauty.


6/15

Chapter One.

As the show was being held in Vancouver, I stoppedthrough Oregon along the way home. I had planned onspending a few extra days in the area, but it just did not go asplanned. Much like everything in my life it seems.

My name is Martha. Today is June 1st 2009. This visit inand around the city of Eugene that was my childhood of hell,has been harder on me then other longer visits. Thedegradation of culture that is on the streets is rampant, andvacant buildings and storefronts are everywhere. Bums

masquerading as eco-hippies in dirty dreadlocks' of lice filledhair, and tie-dyed rags appear to be the majority of thepopulation.

Middle class has vanished in the areas that I see. I amsure it's still there; at least I hope it is. Maybe it's hidden insidethe brand new homes. Homes built in the open fields ofKelley's pond, where I spent summers hiding among the marshof golden thrushes, and the croaking fat bullfrogs, and theslimy little pollywogs that we loved to catch in dirty pails.

The disintegration of my own flesh of youth and that of mypeers is also on my mind. Every age has its rewards and some

say they become masters of it. The ones who cherish it,embrace it, do they really feel rewarded? Or are they all justwizened wizards, hiding behind glittery gilded purple curtains,using voice changers to shout out the lies that us dried upvaginas and limp penised leathery mortals should envy them,that they are happy and successful and forever tender young.

I ponder my sudden thoughts of my own tribulationstowards this point in life. I can laser away the lines on my facebut the things that are deep inside are getting deeper. Iexpected them to fade as I got older. The pain should dull now.

Time should be my opiate on these painful memories'.


7/15

Chapter One.

Rational Martha says, "Don't say it aloud! Don't let thisbecome stronger! "

Here in Eugene, I planned time to spend with a friend,*Angelica* one of only a few people I feel kind to still there.This friend has not changed much over the years, though sheshows a vulnerability now, that I did not notice in the past. Ahairline crack in her marble faade of toughness. Hermarriages have been bad, and bad still I think, as her latestone, I believe is a pervert, who has hidden what I believe, is a

sexual deviation amongst what he calls an "AlternativeLifestyle." I tried to be polite, and kind to him, as the benefit ofdoubt should be given freely, like love should be to children.

Though really I had him pegged from day one a coupleyears ago, having a very good sense of pervert radar, honedrazor sharp over the passage of time spent with men. I did notget to this point in my life, mentally taking notes these pastyears among all that I have experienced in various perversionsof the male sex without this radar. It's an uncanny ability tosense the disquiet and deranged eroticism in their pea likebrains. Still, I normally keep silent my judgments' unless

provoked like a stick thrust in a lion's cage, lest I be wrong.This last male subject in her Trilogy of Woe Begotten

Marriages has poked the stick into my cage. I am glad at last tocall him out for the pervert I know he is, and yet sad to tell myfriend thoughts that I forced my mouth to be closed on. Friendsnever want to hear the truth, not that truth at least.


8/15

Chapter One.

Also, if I was wrong about my suspicions', then it wouldnot help her at all, and the risk of damage to our infrequent yetvalued friendship outweighed the obligation of warnings that,

"YOU MIGHT BE MARRIED TO A PERVERT. "Now though, after walking into the living room, from the

rose garden and finding him boldly standing there, NAKED,and still like, with his slitty beadish eyes as though a cat waitingto pounce, my judgment is correct. His disgusting fat andbloated white carcass-like belly, resting on his spindly turkey

legs revolts me. My eyes were quick to block the offendingsights, and it's only the vacuities of knowing he was naked, thatI saw, except for the protruding jelly belly of milk fat.

Vomit curled up into the recess of my throat, and theburning bile taste of repulsion, was filling my mouth as Iheaded quickly to grab the few things I had in the home. I wasout of there in 3 minutes flat. I told my friend who was stilloutside, suddenly dumbfounded as to my hastened departure.She began to cry, but I know women well too though, and Icould see her litany of plausible excuses fight into her mind.

I do not argue, and just say the facts and quickly leave. I

will not be waived on this knowledge, that I believe he is aPervert, and so sick as to not be able to constrain thisperversion for even 24 hours of a brief visit every two years.No, this is not a good sign of things to come for her in thismarriage.


9/15

Chapter One.

My name is Martha. Today is June 2nd, 2009. I am drivingmy little black Prius up I-5 to Salem, Oregon, a historic townthat's most famous for its insane asylum, which was portrayedin the 1975 film, "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest." It's aplace that would find my own father locked up in during thesixties and off and on for many years during his "dangerousfreakouts" throughout the 1970s. A White Jacket man he was,that is, until they perfected their special tasty cocktails ofchemical lobotomies that kept him from murdering us in our

little child beds.There is a character in the film that is quite similar to myown father, and of which was painful to see visually, as I knewit was him. Though, of course his persona was changedsomewhat of course for legal reasons. The book was writtenmuch earlier, but the asylum was visited for research, rewriting,and so forth, along with filming during his time there. A brilliantmovie though, and dead on accurate.

So I am now in Salem, with Denise "Morningstar"Greenwade, though the Greenwade, has been gone manypillow nights past. A friend of hers, Paul Wegner has come

over. Paul was a senior my first year at North Eugene High. Heis a nice enough sort, seemingly confident and happy at thisstage in his life. He has a smiling face and a head full of sandyblond hair. A guy most people would like. A good character itwould seem in the short-short time I was to visit, but it wassomething he said that made me reflect on memory. His, mine,and yours.

Well, Paul should not bear the brunt of what I say now, asthis book was already being written in my mind. I finallyaccepted the fact that I was never going to be able to write of

anyone else's pain truthfully, and appease my harshest critic,myself, until I came face to face with my own pain. Until Istopped pretending the shame and hurt you bore on me allthose long years was not real. I have tried so hard to forget, Ireally did.


10/15

Chapter One.

As we talked of High School, Paul innocently, said "I do notremember you." I am sure indeed that he did not, in that part ofhis memory that was searched. I never dated him, he neverpassed me notes. We had no interaction that I recallspecifically in High school.

Now, Paul, but I ask you. "Did you remember the kid whoeveryone picked on?" Every school has one of thesemisfortunate beings. Every single school in this country, eventhe deaf mute school. For torment and torture can take many

forms. Do not dare to speak that you know of no one like that."Did you laugh with the other boys as they tripped her orstuck notes on her back, or the girls who cut quick chunks ofher hair off in the crowded hallways? "Did you help her pick upher books when they knocked them out of her hands? Did yousee anything?"

Or do you too claim your lie of innocence by your silencenow? No, I do not say we should all bear angel trumpets andannounce to the world a list of all our dirty, sordid, and deepestsecret sins of the past, or mouth your chants of repent or dowhatever your gods tell you to do in your god-churches and

god-temples of moneyed silks and sweet honeyed voices. I justnow say to all of you who shared those tortuous 10 year longmoments in my past.

You are guilty.If you disagree with this, then now is the moment to

proclaim your innocence. I will listen. I will speak of yourproclamation of innocence. Let each one of you be cleansed.Let each one of you become a juror to the other. Let each oneof you judge the other. Time has given me the forum and theknowledge to show my secret shameful torments to the world,

and name the accused.It is you.It is you who stood by as I was dragged into an emotional

death of which I shall never wholly recover. You who instigatedor participated each different day some form of constant and


11/15

Chapter One.

brutal terror and torture of me, even to this day that such extentit is rarely heard about, even in crimes of mass killings.

Dare you deny this? Are you not the same person insidethat you have always been? Do you feel your guilt each timeyou hear of this torture of children? Or has your mind foldedfluffy Blue and Pink blankets of "We were just kids" over thepast?

Can you see me here now, crying? Salty wet tears, rivuletsof my pain, which I still bear today, over 30 years later? That Ifeel right now, at this moment. Knife cuts into my soul-heartthat can never be stitched up. Wounds that forever will dripblood drops of hurt onto my white sheets of happy-cloth that Ihave tried to hide under.

Who among you has the courage to face your past, as Iface mine? To atone for your part in this shattered life, I led asa child? To acknowledge each day from this day forward, thatyou bear some guilt. To touch the mental sticks and stones youbroke me with.

My name is Martha. Today is June 3rd, 2009. The poorly

patched freeway of soulless cement hums its steady song up

through the wheels of my Prius. It's so loud I don't even havethe radio on, which is probably good, as I can then force mymind not to wander. I rarely travel to Eugene anymore. I goback to see a couple of friends, but no family is there that Ieven have an address for.

Eugene is now just a town on the I-5 that has not been myhome in many years. A town filled will pain and memorybesides the vacant lots and rotten piles of worm filled leavesfrom winters past. I have gone to occasional North EugeneHigh reunions, and found it somewhat cathartic, and healing.Or at least I did until my epiphanic revelation of clarity andpurpose.

This is not a purpose I have chosen, this telling of tales ofthe past. I know that it's not a good happy tale, but I am notsorry for this telling of it. You have made it my story.

The telling of this tale is like lancing a deep abscess in mysoul. It perhaps needs to be done but the ooze and pus that


12/15

Chapter One.

bursts out like lava, burns my mind. The memories that havebeen forced down over the years, flood my thoughts. Evenlanced abscesses can continue to fester, and maybe the knife-quill that I have chosen to make this sharp cut with, is poisonedwith an unknown bacteria that will infect my mind further. Agod-germ of yours brought on by my refusal to submit anymore. To pretend you are innocent in the destruction of this lifeI endure.

Perhaps it will bring on a descent into a deep blackdarkness that I thought I had escaped. A watery living grave ofepidural fluid and mis-fired neurons and recalcitrantchromosomes. A sudden desire to seek out your gods. Repent.Repent. Wrap copper coils on my wrists and neck. To demandthe world to be as insane as I must be.

Only time will tell, and my path is suddenly clear. Just asmy memory now is vivid at points, but with the glass likelucidity of a mad mans frenetic rants. My memories and mymind could not be clearer to me, nor more fragile.

My name is Martha, today is June 5th 2009. I know if I thinktoo long about this, Rational Martha will continue to tell me to"let it go, drop it!" Say hello every 10-15 years if I feel like

hitting town, and just smile and let everyone go on pretendingthey were not involved in the crime. That writing this book willbe excruciatingly painful for me. That it will make people feeluncomfortable and bothered, unhappy that I choose to take usfrom our safe little world of forget, or benign blankness, into thetorment of my past.

This includes causing distress to my own loved ones, whonot only find it incredulous that it actually happened to me,mom, wife, lover, friend, but that I should willingly choose toimmerse myself in the deepest pain I have ever known, oncemore, for the next six months at least.

To shut myself alone in a room, and to terrorize my soulwillingly this time. To risk my ability to let it slip quietly back into the tiny spot in my head that is content to just take smallnibbles off my happiness constantly. To mentally abandonthem, to what I am sure they must think is insanity. No, they donot understand it, but I know you do.


13/15

Chapter One.

I also know that six months from now the devils you haveforced on me will not be gone, just sated enough for me tomaybe continue existence for a while longer. So no, whyshould I care about making people feel uncomfortable. Is itworth the 3 hours of watching everyone somewhat covertlyevery few years? Pretending I am okay, when I am not.Pretending I belong when I don't? Why should I give up tryingto exorcise something that has haunted me for over thirty yearsnow, just to let hundreds of others forget?

How does one forget a murder? No, not a grisly, crime ofphysical death. The Murder of a Soul. The crime of killingsomething inside a person that can never be resuscitated, androts away inside after its death to a small pile of dusty ashes. Aplace where something happy and light once was, only nowthere is nothing but a vast vacant hollow of emptiness that willnever be filled with anything, not booze or drugs or sex orchildren or marriage or fancy homes and fancy dogs, or newcars and new friends or plastic surgeons with pockets ofsyringes filled with botox and lip-plumper and perky prettybreasts in their magic bag of pretty tricks.

Nothing can fill this up. This emptiness is always dark and

silent and hungry.What type of person has such lack of character, and heart,

that they could commit this crime, and then claim to forget? No,they probably did not collect any souvenirs, such as a serialkiller does, but they knew it was wrong, and they knew theywere hurting someone, and they did it anyway. Not just once,but many, many times. A good many of you, did this the entireten years. How can all these hundreds of people forget? Hastheir gods wiped their mind free along with the guilt?

I am dead now as you read this, this story of yours.Safely gone, this redheaded different girl. You are free to

paint swirls of soft hued water colored days over the time youspent near me. To deny to each other, each person we sharethis past with, which you breathed into your soul. I am dead toyou, I am sure. No, I may not be physically dead; I do not yethope so. Perhaps my Melanoma, and its sweet death scythe-asaccharine promise of eternal amnesia from this pain, will not


14/15

Chapter One.

yet have called out its song? It will not matter to you though Iam sure. For we are always the same person we have everbeen, and I do not pretend that these words of mine shall makeany difference in your life.

My name is Martha. It is 1977. We are sitting on the hardwooden bleachers inside the gym with its beautiful polishedmaple floor. The slick surface gleams almost as bright as thebasketball team that is making town history with Danny Aingeleading it on like a god among mortals.

I can smell the pungent sweat of victory on the players. It'sa different smell then when they are losing, which is not veryoften. Tonight it's a sweet green apple like scent, a freshenergetic scent. Can you smell it? I am sitting here now, belowyou, with the odd lot of others. I am never aware thatsomething is going to happen, but always aware it probablywill. You boys behind me are now spitting sunflower shells ontothe back of my somewhat tangled hair. You girls egg them on.

I can hear your bright-girl laughter, and feel the seedlessstripes of empty plant uterus hit my head as they are spit onme. I am lucky. Tonight its only hollow seedless shells thatswiftly fall to the ground. If this was a school assembly, with

just teachers in attendance only turning blind eyes to my cage,then I would have sticky spit and gum on my hair. Yes, I amlucky it is only shells, and you are clever enough to be ever soslight as to not cause more to know my shame and hurt.

Later that night I cry silently into my pillow. It's something Ido a lot. Sometimes the torment is tolerable, and sometimes Iam left with bruises on more than my mind, or spit and gumthat can be washed out of my hair. Needles and pins stuckquickly into my arms as I am passed by in the crowded hall, asstealthily as a secret spy could accomplish. Your large boy-

feet-stick-em-out-fast, that send my red hair head flying into asharp metal locker edge. Yes, tonight I am lucky! When DannyAinge gets control of the ball once more and easily takes thefinal victory, I am ecstatic! We won!

2009Martha Raysik. Please comment your thoughts on thisbook. I would appreciate it so much.I am on facebook


15/15

Chapter One.

The preceding work is copyright protected by Martha Raysikunder all applicable laws and statues of the United StatesGovernment and other countries. It has been submitted with allproper payments and registered through the United StatesCopyright office. This is official notice of electronic publication.The pending registration number is 1-204348081 with a date of06/12/2009, as its first official electronic publication. No part ofthis work may be reproduced without the permission of theauthor.

Documents

16919901 Murder in Eugene