sexual abuse

A Good Cry

Fandango25 Comments

Let’s see. I think it was back in October in the early 80s when it first started, if I remember correctly. I was still very young at the time, maybe ten. It’s hard for me to describe the details of exactly what happened, since it was so long ago and it’s still painful to think about. But I remember when I told my mother about it, she soft-pedaled it. She said I must have imagined it, or that I was making it up.

It was years later, after I left home to go to college, graduated, and started working, that my mother, with whom I hadn’t spoken since leaving home, called me to tell me that my father had died. She begged me to come home for the funeral and said that, after all these years, she wanted to talk, face-to-face.

When I got to her place, with tears in her eyes, she finally admitted that something had actually happened. She found some things of my father’s in the attic, specifically some Polaroid pictures he had taken of me, that made her realize that I wasn’t making it all up.

She apologized profusely. The pathos she expressed for me was palpable. We talked about the discrimination toward children who accuse a parent of sexual abuse, because no one can imagine a father doing something like that to his own child. We talked about how that old adage about how children should be seen and not heard is so wrong.

We had a good cry together, my mother and I.

Written for these daily prompts: E.M.’s Random Word Prompt (October), The Daily Spur (young), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (describe), Ragtag Daily Prompt (soft), Your Daily Word Prompt (later ), Word of the Day Challenge (pathos), and My Vivid Blog (discrimination).

The Girl and the Model House

Fandango21 Comments

Girl holding a model houseShe stood on the near bank of the canal, a blank expression on her face. In her hands, she held a scale model of house similar to those on the opposite bank of the canal. When asked about it by various passersby, she said nothing and continued staring ahead, expressionless.

As twilight approached, the lights behind the windows of the model house came on. Still, the young woman remained motionless and by that time, a small crowd, curious about what she was doing, gathered around her. A few more people inquired, but she remained silent.

It was almost 8 pm and dark when a police officer approached the young woman, now surrounded by more than 100 townspeople. The policeman, standing directly in front of her, said, “Young lady, you’ve gathered quite a crowd around you, but no one seems to know what it is you’re doing out here. Can you please enlighten me?”

The young woman looked at the officer. She bent over and set the model house on the ground. She stood back up and started to tell her story, speaking in a hushed voice so that only the officer could hear her.

“My name is Anna,” she said. “I am seventeen and have lived in the next town over for the past thirteen years. This,” she said, pointing to the model house she had just set down, “is a model of the house I lived in. I was taken from my first home by a man and woman when I was around four. They said that they were my uncle and aunt and took me in, claiming that my parents had tragically died in a car accident.”

Anna continued, “At first I was very grateful. They took very good care of me. They taught me to read and write and gave me religious training. But I was not allowed to leave the house alone, which I thought was strange. But I accepted it because they fed me, clothed me, and cared about me.”

Anna stopped for a moment, sighed deeply, and then gathered herself. “But when I was about twelve, as I grew from a little girl into womanhood, everything changed. The couple started to do things to me. Sexual things. They told me that this was how parents and children show how much they love one another. I knew it wasn’t right, at least it didn’t feel right, but I didn’t know what to do.”

The officer looked perplexed. “I’m sorry about what they did to you, but I’m not sure I understand what it is you’re doing here and what this is.” He pointed to the model house.

“I had to get away from my uncle and aunt and I tried to plan my escape. But they found out about my plan, and locked me in a room in the house. They came in my room to bring me food and to make me do sexual things with them. When I was alone, I put together this model house and was going to use it to show the police what my house looked like if I ever escaped. It took me almost a year to make it.”

“So you ultimately did escape,” the officer said. “Where are your uncle and aunt now? Can you take me to their house? I can arrest them.”

“There’s no need for that,” Anna said. “They’re gone.”

“Where did they go?”

Anna reached into a dress pocket, pulled out a book of matches, struck one, and dropped it on the model house she had made. When the match hit it, it quickly burst into flames. “They’re in there,” she said, pointing at the model. “What I just did to this, I did to their actual house this morning, before they woke up. They can’t hurt me anymore.”

Written for this week’s Photo Challenge from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie. Photo credit: Oleg Oprisco.

MLMM Sunday Writing Prompt — Betrayal

Fandango12 Comments

FB03A8E9-DDC5-4864-A2CD-671674D37EC6He told me he was working on his PhD. He said it was on changes in the evolution of the physical characteristics of adolescent boys in the 21st century. He said he wanted me to be a part of his study. I was flattered that he had singled me out as the one student in his ninth grade biology class he invited to participate.

He told me that all of his research equipment was at his home and offered to take me there after school one day. He asked me to tell my parents that I would be working with him on an extracurricular project for which I’d receive extra credit.

The day finally arrived and I was excited. I felt special, honored. We dove to his house and went down to his basement, where his home office was. He offered me some lemonade and oatmeal raisin cookies, my favorite cookies. He asked me if I was ready to get started and I told him I was.

He said he needed to take some measurements to use for his baseline. He suggested I strip down to my underpants, which I did. He asked me if he could take pictures of me with his digital camera and I said he could. Then he grabbed a cloth measuring tape and began taking measurements. First my chest. Then my waist. My hips. My shoulders. My arm length, leg length. He measured the circumference of my upper arm, lower arm, thigh, and calf.

Then he said he needed to measure the size of my penis and testicles. He asked me to remove my underpants. I hesitated, but he assured me that it was for scientific research, so I removed my underpants.

He took my flaccid penis in his hand and measured its length and circumference. I was uncomfortable with him doing this, but he was my teacher. And this was for his PhD.

Then he said he needed to measure my penis when it was erect, like a before and after image, and he started to stroke it. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. I tried pushing him away, but he was strong. Then he bent down and tried to take my penis in his mouth.

I saw the large microscope on his work table, reached over and grabbed it, swung it down, and started hitting him on his head with it. Over and over again. He stopped. And that’s when I called 9-1-1.

“Thank you for your statement,” the police detective said. “We’ve contacted your parents and the school. One of our officers will drive you home.”

Written for today’s Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt. Today’s prompt is “teachers.”

This fictional piece was inspired by the movie “The Tale,” which I recently watched on TV.

To Save and Preserve

Fandango13 Comments

D5DFFEC0-E9C6-4526-8DCC-B631AA2E558FMy first inclination when I saw today’s one-word prompt, “courage,” was to go political and to write about the absence of courage that the Republicans in Congress have exhibited when it comes to their constitutional role to serve as a check and balance against an unhinged, autocrat-wannabe who occupies the White House.

But then, since I’ve been watching the Winter Olympics on TV, I thought I’d write about the incredible courage of those athletes who attempt what to me appears to be almost superhuman feats of athleticism as they go for the gold.

And then I thought about the courage of first responders who go charging in — whether for natural disasters like earthquakes, floods, fires, or hurricanes, or into man-made tragedies, like mass shootings and terrorist bombings — when everyone else is fleeing the scene.

There’s also the courage of whistleblowers who are willing to risk their careers — and possibly even their lives — in order to release to the public details of underhanded or illegal activities on the part of employers or even governments.

And what of the courage of women who have told their stories about sexual harassment and abuse by the rich, famous, and powerful?

But what is needed most today is the courage of everyday Americans to go out and vote at each and every election, from local and statewide elections to national elections. The courage to pay attention to the issues that matter to them and to actively support and vote for candidates who reflect their personal values.

That is the kind of courage that is critical in order to save and preserve our democracy.