The belt hurt. The big metal buckle does most of the damage. I’m going to use up my bandage stash. I can feel the blood soaking my clothing where the buckle bit too deeply. John is having fun taking out his anger on me. Hanging me upside down and whipping me is his idea of fun. I don’t understand his anger. All I said was I didn’t want to go camping; I didn’t mention why. I don’t deserve this beating.

For as long as I can remember, I saw and felt death before it happened. I learned the hard way no one else does. John believes I’m possessed. Jesus freak; he thinks he can beat the demon out of me. He looks at me with a crazed hunger. That look frightens me more than the death I see.

I still see death, but I’ve gone more than a year without revealing that to my parents. When I was younger, I didn’t have an understanding of death. I would describe what I saw. They thought I had a vivid imagination. Mother didn’t make the connection until I started saying it was the last time we would see someone. It clicked for John when he found his uncle exactly as I’d described. He gained another reason to strike me. My mother chose not to see any of it.

Again, I’m treating the results of John's anger. He stops at bruises most of the time. When I’m bleeding, I bandage my injuries alone. Blood makes my mother pass out. John isn't an option either. I received his help one time. Examining the results of the whipping or my blood stimulated him. He used a stiff bristle brush to scrub the cuts. John smiled as he inflicted damage. I never want to see that smile again.

There’s little consistency in seeing death. Sometimes, it’s like watching a movie. Other times it’s a series of pictures, or it’s feelings. I don’t always see the face, don’t always recognize them. Dreams are the worst; I don’t always remember them. Sometimes, they are clear, or I wake with a hazy memory. When I find out about a dream death, I feel I’ve seen it before. That’s how I know it's hazy or  I didn’t remember it. I always know the cause of death, always feel the passage of time till it happens. The farthest out I’ve felt is two weeks. This one will happen tomorrow. I don’t know who it is. A distant rifle shot causes the death.

Mother is blaming me for the late start. I hide in a book and try to tune my pain out during the four-hour drive to the Phelps Creek campground. Every time I shift in my seat, I catch John watching me in the rear-view mirror. I see this with my peripheral vision. Glad the mirror isn’t big enough to show his whole face. I suspect that smile is on it. The cuts on my backside have me shifting position often. When we hit the dirt road that marks the last stretch of our journey, shifting isn't enough.

The late start and even later arrival have me gathering firewood at dusk. John did more cussing at cars than I typically hear from him. Words I don’t dare repeat. Other kids get their mouths washed out with soap, I have to eat it. I learned not to chew it, and to swallow it in big chunks before I learned all the words I can’t say.

Volunteering to stay up and watch the campfire till it burns down to coals is the only pleasant thing in my day. I’ll pay for it tomorrow when John kicks me out of bed at dawn to go fishing. For now, that’s okay. I need the peace of letting my mind blank out as I focus on the dancing flames. In these moments, I don’t feel the pain, don’t have to watch for the next thing that will trigger John.

A kick to my calf wakes me. Dawn, time to go fishing. Quietly, we exit the tent and gather our gear. Mother doesn’t fish, so she gets to sleep in. I follow John through the dew-damp wild huckleberry bushes to our usual fishing hole. A couple of hours of blessed silence from him. I notice him watching me every time I move.

Mother cooks our catch for breakfast. I help with cleanup and gather enough wood to keep the fire going for the day. The rest of the day is mine to do what I want; that’s to get away from John. I felt him watching me this morning. It’s never good when he watches me like that. He’s building up for another major beating, and I haven't healed yet.

I walk up the road towards the old Trinity Silver Mine. Its abandoned town is fun to explore if a bit sad. A deer running across the road, startling me. What feels like a kick from a horse knocks me flat on my back. Then, I hear the report of three rifle shots. I realize what happened; why I’m leaving my body. Too bad I can’t thank the hunter for releasing me from this hell.

I’m eight years old, and I welcome my death.