I Guess He Was A Friend

Well, here goes, my next to last post on the subject of tragedy. These are the most difficult memories - the most terrifying and puzzling to live through, because I didn't understand; and experience - life - is all about understanding. Understanding to process what is happening to you and around you; understanding to form an opinion or reaction. Without understanding, you’re a blind man swiping at a cold wind in defense of yourself. Understanding is the fundamental building block for love and hate - whether it be true or false understanding, the sense that you know something and have an opinion based on that knowledge is what gives rise to passionate uprisings, upheavals, upsets. It makes way for delectable loves, delightful kisses, and delicious caresses. Seeking out understanding is a human truth; perhaps you search for answers from God or science - but it is this curiosity that drives us. Yet, as children, there is so much to learn and so many sources to learn from. Do we turn to the bible, our parents, the gossip channels? Who will grab our attention; lead us to untold joys or terrors? In my case, I guess he was a friend.

In A Lost Father, it is immediately clear that I will have "daddy" issues for a long time. Men were a source of confoundedness for me since the age of five. I wanted to please them, but I hated them all the same. Truly, I can't blame it all on him. In my next installment, All That Ever Was, I will surmise a series of events that caused the most damage - if I can find the strength. And so, at the root of me, there was this conundrum, just waiting for the right person to come along and abuse my state of confusion.

When I was 12, a new neighbor moved in, with them was a girl about a year younger than me. She was out-going, out-spoken, and outrageous - just the opposite of me. I was shy and retiring, mostly keeping to myself, writing poetry and songs. I had very few friends, none of which lived in my building. So it was nice, when my mother became friends with the neighbor, I became friends with her.

She took me all around; to the park, to other people's houses. She had more friends than I did and she knew more places to go despite the fact that I had lived there most of my life. All of her friends became my friends; especially the boys. She was cute; short, shapely, and athletic. The boys were drawn to her like bees to honey, and she liked the boys.

It was through her, that I met a boy 4 years older than me. I had seen him several times before, but we never had cause to talk. But because of my friend, I would see this boy at least three times a week. He would come to either my door or her door and talk to us. At first the conversation was benign. We would talk about music or gossip about people in the building, but not too long after he started visiting us, the talk became fresh. He wanted to take my friend into the staircase, she would go, and when she came back she would tell me how he kissed her and grabbed her breasts. We would giggle and laugh, and then she would tell me how she really didn't like him, she liked his friend.

It wasn't long before he turned his attention to me; attentions I wanted, but didn't want. I wanted attention but I didn't want to be touched. So, when he invited me down to his house, I didn't hesitate. It was like when he came to our doors to hang out, except this time I was going to his house.

I was babysitting one of my younger brothers that day and brought him with me. When I knocked on the door, he looked at my brother and told him to wait outside. He invited me in and asked me if I wanted a drink - the whole while leading me to his bedroom. My heart was thumping. I had no idea why he wanted to see me. I didn't understand why he wanted my brother to wait outside. Things were happening so fast and I felt like there was no turning back.

Once I was in his bedroom, he sat me down on the bed. In an instant he was unbuttoning my jeans and tugging them off along with my panties. I was mortified. He was holding me down on the bed and I struggled to get away from him. When he pulled down his sweat pants, that's when I started screaming - screaming to the top of my lungs. He covered my mouth while he penetrated me. The next thing I heard was banging. It was my younger brother banging on the door with all of his 8 year old strength. Banging, muffled screams, grunts of pleasure and a spinning room - those were the sensory inputs being crammed into my brain, never to be forgotten.

When it was over, he led by the hand to the door. My brother had been screaming for him to let me out the whole time, and when I emerged from the apartment, he asked if I were okay. I had been crying, but I straightened up enough to tell him I was fine.

Afterwards, whenever the boy saw me, he tried to corner me and rape me again and again. Sometimes he was successful. He would stalk me; into parks, basements, stairwells; forcing me to give him oral sex, kissing me, opening me up with his penis. And I would cry, and scream, and fight - but after a while I just gave in, because there was no one to come to my rescue. There was no one who cared. To this day, I hate kissing; I hate it because of these memories.

I refused to leave the house after a while. I stayed indoors and wrote. One day my friend came to me, she was in disbelief about something. Then she began telling me this story, one that amounted to this: The boy who had been raping me, was also raping his nieces and one of them confessed this to my friend. I told her that she should tell. We tried to get his niece to tell on him, but the whole time I felt like such a hypocrite. I never told what he did to me, but here I was trying to convince this 10 year old girl to tell her family that her uncle was raping her.

I lived in fear until I was about 13, that's  when he was sent away to military school for raping his nieces. I never did confront him. Sometimes I still see him when I visit my mother. And for as strong as I think I am; for as strong as some of you have said I am, I'm still afraid.

Tomorrow, All That Ever Was. . .