Lost Boy: A Child Called It

Author: (USA) David Pelzer
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: This book is the first and second parts of David Pelzer's autobiographical trilogy, respectively telling the author's personal experiences from the age of 4 to 12 and from 12 to 18. During those days, he suffered brutal mental and physical abuse from his mother, and his life was constantly threatened at home, with several instances where he came close to the brink of death. However, his strong will to survive and his indomitable spirit gave him the motivation to endure. In the end, he triumphed over an opponent far stronger than himself. As Jack Canfield, co-author of "Chicken Soup for the Soul," said: "David Pelzer did not exaggerate the life-threatening hardships he faced but instead focused on his unwavering determination and will, which is what inspires all of us." The story in this book shows readers that no matter how powerful the adversities in life may seem, people can overcome difficulties and move toward a brighter future. It awakens the strongest and most powerful melody deep within the human soul, encouraging people to challenge the limits of their spirit, never to yield in adversity, and to seek hope in despair. The first and second parts of the trilogy have been on the New York Times Best Seller list for 6 and 4 years, respectively, since their publication in 1995 and 1997. David Pelzer himself has been enthusiastically praised by U.S. Presidents Reagan, Bush, and Clinton. This book has become a true source of inspiration for millions of people to regain their confidence in life.
March 5, 1973, Darby, California. I woke up late. I had to finish washing the dishes on time, or I wouldn’t get breakfast. Since I hadn’t eaten dinner the night before, I couldn’t let my stomach be empty again. My mother was pacing back and forth in the house, constantly scolding my brothers. I heard her walking from the hallway to the kitchen, thud-thud-thud. I put my hand back into the scalding water. Too late, she saw my hand wasn’t in the water. With a slap, she punched me in the face, and I fell to the ground. I knew I shouldn’t stand still and let her hit me. I was very familiar with her cruelty. She would think I was provoking her, which meant she would go on hitting me, and worse, she wouldn’t let me have breakfast. I stood up straight again and avoided her gaze as she shouted in my ear. I pretended to be timid and nodded whatever she said. I kept thinking, "As long as I get breakfast, it’s okay. If she wants to hit me, let her, but don’t take away my breakfast." Another slap, and my head hit the brick stove. I pretended to submit and let tears stream down my cheeks. She seemed satisfied and left the kitchen in triumph. I counted her footsteps and only breathed a sigh of relief once I was sure she was far away. I played my part well. My mother could hit me however she wanted, but she never succeeded in crushing my will to survive. I finished washing the dishes and did other chores. My reward was eating breakfast—the leftover oatmeal from one of my brothers. Today’s oatmeal was Lucky Charms, and the half-bowl of milk had only a little bit of oatmeal left. But I still ate it quickly, afraid my mother would change her mind. That had happened before. She liked to use food as a weapon to punish me. She wouldn’t throw the leftovers in the trash because she knew I would dig them out again. I knew some of her tricks well. A few minutes later, I was already sitting in our old family car. Since I had done so much housework, I was sure I would be late, so I could take my mother’s car to school. On normal days, I always walked to school. I arrived right on time for class, with no time to sneak a bite from another child’s lunchbox. My mother made my older brother get out of the car first and left me to listen to her lecture. She told me she had already planned for tomorrow: she would send me to her brother’s place, and her brother, Uncle Dann, would "raise me." She said she only wanted to scare me. I pretended to be very scared, as if her words really frightened me. But I knew very well that although Uncle Dann was stubborn, he wouldn’t abuse me like my mother did. Before the car even stopped, I jumped out. My mother called me back because I had left my wrinkled lunch bag in the car. My lunch had never changed over the past three years—it was always two peanut butter sandwiches.