(no subject)
I was half a bus away from him. He sat at the front, I at the back. I felt like puking. He didn’t even look that much like Him, just certain features, his height. He wore the same sort of tweed stuff that all people that age wear. He had the same kind of walking cane...one of those thick ones made from one piece of wood.
All of that I could have dealt with, could have ignored. I mean, he was so far away, and there were so many people. But then, he raised his hands and rubbed his face. They were his hands. His fingers. The same ones that had been inside of me, searching, scouring, digging for something I hadn’t even known of. I could feel them, these phantoms inside of me, moving, scratching, endlessly hurting.
I thought I was over it. I thought I had forgiven, if not forgotten. I thought that after six fucking years I would be able to face the demon whenever I met Him. And it wasn’t even him.
The bastard on the bus smiled at me. Just a quizzical, half smile, probably because of the nauseated way I was staring at him, unable to wrench my eyes away. He was probably wondering why I had so much loathing in my gaze. Did he not see what he was doing to me?
Did He not see what he would do to me?
I couldn’t help it then. The tears ran down my cheeks, even as I choked on sobs and tried to keep my breakfast down. Never had I had such an instantaneous physical reaction to anything. And I thought I had forgiven. I thought that by talking about it, sharing it, warning people, I had purged myself of this hell.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Even in my dreams I can't escape. Vague images of canes and his paperback books mesh with the mangoes he would get especially for me.
I can't breathe properly...
When will this end? When will I be able to move on?
I am so paranoid. What if my father, my brothers, my best friend, what if any of them have this in them? How do I know that when I get married I won't provide some pedophile with the prime opputurnity by having children with him? How do I know that someone around me won't look at my little kids and see a sexual object?
I have to see Him next year.
What am I going to do? How will I be able to see him at the airport, kiss his wife, stay in the same place as him? Will I be a coward and attempt to act normally, or will I finally be able to gain closure by yelling at the man who loved me so, yet violated me the most?
Everyone knows. I don't know how, but slowly, the knowledge of what He did to me has trickled out. And yet, nothing has happened. Nobody has said anything. There have been no denials because there have been no accusations. Why?
And yet they know. They know what he did, how, when everyone else would be taking naps in the afternoon heat, he would call me to him, and that even the times I would fake sleep he would come get me. Take me out to where no one could see and dig. Shove his fingers in a hole I hadn't even known existed, twist and turn until I cried out in pain. And as soon as he was done, as soon as he had achieved whatever the hell it was that he wanted, He would pull up my pants, pull down my shirt, pat me on my bum and send me on my way. He never acted differently, never showed an ounce of remorse, or glee, or anything. Never did it seem that what was tearing me apart, what he was causing, had any effect on him.
Oh my God, I can't do this. I don't know where to go, what to do to get rid of the memories, of the pain, of the guilt.
All of that I could have dealt with, could have ignored. I mean, he was so far away, and there were so many people. But then, he raised his hands and rubbed his face. They were his hands. His fingers. The same ones that had been inside of me, searching, scouring, digging for something I hadn’t even known of. I could feel them, these phantoms inside of me, moving, scratching, endlessly hurting.
I thought I was over it. I thought I had forgiven, if not forgotten. I thought that after six fucking years I would be able to face the demon whenever I met Him. And it wasn’t even him.
The bastard on the bus smiled at me. Just a quizzical, half smile, probably because of the nauseated way I was staring at him, unable to wrench my eyes away. He was probably wondering why I had so much loathing in my gaze. Did he not see what he was doing to me?
Did He not see what he would do to me?
I couldn’t help it then. The tears ran down my cheeks, even as I choked on sobs and tried to keep my breakfast down. Never had I had such an instantaneous physical reaction to anything. And I thought I had forgiven. I thought that by talking about it, sharing it, warning people, I had purged myself of this hell.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Even in my dreams I can't escape. Vague images of canes and his paperback books mesh with the mangoes he would get especially for me.
I can't breathe properly...
When will this end? When will I be able to move on?
I am so paranoid. What if my father, my brothers, my best friend, what if any of them have this in them? How do I know that when I get married I won't provide some pedophile with the prime opputurnity by having children with him? How do I know that someone around me won't look at my little kids and see a sexual object?
I have to see Him next year.
What am I going to do? How will I be able to see him at the airport, kiss his wife, stay in the same place as him? Will I be a coward and attempt to act normally, or will I finally be able to gain closure by yelling at the man who loved me so, yet violated me the most?
Everyone knows. I don't know how, but slowly, the knowledge of what He did to me has trickled out. And yet, nothing has happened. Nobody has said anything. There have been no denials because there have been no accusations. Why?
And yet they know. They know what he did, how, when everyone else would be taking naps in the afternoon heat, he would call me to him, and that even the times I would fake sleep he would come get me. Take me out to where no one could see and dig. Shove his fingers in a hole I hadn't even known existed, twist and turn until I cried out in pain. And as soon as he was done, as soon as he had achieved whatever the hell it was that he wanted, He would pull up my pants, pull down my shirt, pat me on my bum and send me on my way. He never acted differently, never showed an ounce of remorse, or glee, or anything. Never did it seem that what was tearing me apart, what he was causing, had any effect on him.
Oh my God, I can't do this. I don't know where to go, what to do to get rid of the memories, of the pain, of the guilt.