The Reason Why I Used to Hate Phone Calls...
I sought help because I didn’t want to have another dream like that again. I was afraid that I would be afraid to sleep.
The incident with the boy in middle school who touched me doesn’t really bother me anymore. There is no reaction. THAT is not the problem. But sometimes I think, am I an enabler? Shit.
For the longest time, whenever I tried to think about it, my mind would go blank and my brain would crash. Forget trying to talk about it, my mind could not even produce the words to myself. I read somewhere that some things are too horrific to put into words and our minds just tuck them away because we are not ready to deal with them yet.
I used to try to force myself to bring it out, to tell someone, but even just thinking about it, I’d terrify and terrorize myself without having had lifted a finger. I felt embarrassed, horribly ashamed, horrified, guilty, and so unexplainably afraid.
When I was young, maybe six years old, there was a phone call from a man who wanted to talk to me. He wanted to play a game with me. There would be prizes if I guessed right.
“Just guess how many pumps it takes for little Sheila.”
I wanted to win.
I listened to the man breathe on the other end.
“No, sorry. Maybe next time.”
For years, the man would call me…spaced out weeks or months at a time.
I never guessed right.
It was something I’d forgotten all about by the time I reached high school. Life was flying by at an incredibly fast rate.
But one day, I picked up the phone and I heard a man’s voice. I was afraid, because I could hear my voice answering his automatically, unquestioning, as if on impulse. MY voice. I listened to him strain and breathe.
“Too bad. Maybe next time.”
“Y-yeah,” I said back, returning the phone to the receiver.
“…what just happened?” I covered my mouth and recoiled from the phone as though it were a rattlesnake, shaking its death-rattle, head poised and ready to strike.
The memories came back in a rush and the pieces fell into place. Things I had never known or didn’t want to know.
The man knows me by now…he must know where I live…he has called for nearly ten years. This game of his…this game. He likes little children. Good god. He likes little children. That was why he wanted to talk to me. That is why he always says, “Good girl…good girl…” as he strains on the phone…there is always a different girl. A different little girl. He pumps into them. He touches them. He rapes them. Once, there was a boy’s name. He used a boy’s name. It doesn’t matter to him. There is always a different child whose name he calls. And he makes me guess how many thrusts it will take before he cums.
How many? How many children has he molested? has he taken? If I had guessed right, does that mean I would have been next?
I thought, I’ll be safe…I’m too big now. But my mind conjured images of my nephew running around so carefree…it wasn’t safe anymore. I was so scared for him.
I wanted to say something…I wanted to know what happened to those little girls. Maybe I could save them…maybe we could find him.
But he didn’t call the house again. He knew by my voice as I hung up that I was no longer a little girl and that I now knew what he was doing.
I’ve never told my family. I’ve never really told anyone the whole story because the words would never come out. My brain stops them and words cease. It makes me disgusted to think about it. And it disgusts me that I never knew…that he has probably picked another little girl to call and play his game with. That there are likely scores of children he has terrorized and is still continuing to terrorize. And I feel so much guilt that I have done nothing, that I never realized. And I feel so relieved that he never came after me, never touched me, never thrusted into me saying, “that’s a good girl, good girl…easy…good Leila…that’s the way.” And I feel so angry that the world is so very ugly.
But I am still very much afraid. That maybe the man will appear in my life again, but not as a disembodied voice on the other end of a phone line…but in the ugly flesh. And he’s come to ensure that I remain silent because I know. I know.
The incident with the boy in middle school who touched me doesn’t really bother me anymore. There is no reaction. THAT is not the problem. But sometimes I think, am I an enabler? Shit.
For the longest time, whenever I tried to think about it, my mind would go blank and my brain would crash. Forget trying to talk about it, my mind could not even produce the words to myself. I read somewhere that some things are too horrific to put into words and our minds just tuck them away because we are not ready to deal with them yet.
I used to try to force myself to bring it out, to tell someone, but even just thinking about it, I’d terrify and terrorize myself without having had lifted a finger. I felt embarrassed, horribly ashamed, horrified, guilty, and so unexplainably afraid.
When I was young, maybe six years old, there was a phone call from a man who wanted to talk to me. He wanted to play a game with me. There would be prizes if I guessed right.
“Just guess how many pumps it takes for little Sheila.”
I wanted to win.
I listened to the man breathe on the other end.
“No, sorry. Maybe next time.”
For years, the man would call me…spaced out weeks or months at a time.
I never guessed right.
It was something I’d forgotten all about by the time I reached high school. Life was flying by at an incredibly fast rate.
But one day, I picked up the phone and I heard a man’s voice. I was afraid, because I could hear my voice answering his automatically, unquestioning, as if on impulse. MY voice. I listened to him strain and breathe.
“Too bad. Maybe next time.”
“Y-yeah,” I said back, returning the phone to the receiver.
“…what just happened?” I covered my mouth and recoiled from the phone as though it were a rattlesnake, shaking its death-rattle, head poised and ready to strike.
The memories came back in a rush and the pieces fell into place. Things I had never known or didn’t want to know.
The man knows me by now…he must know where I live…he has called for nearly ten years. This game of his…this game. He likes little children. Good god. He likes little children. That was why he wanted to talk to me. That is why he always says, “Good girl…good girl…” as he strains on the phone…there is always a different girl. A different little girl. He pumps into them. He touches them. He rapes them. Once, there was a boy’s name. He used a boy’s name. It doesn’t matter to him. There is always a different child whose name he calls. And he makes me guess how many thrusts it will take before he cums.
How many? How many children has he molested? has he taken? If I had guessed right, does that mean I would have been next?
I thought, I’ll be safe…I’m too big now. But my mind conjured images of my nephew running around so carefree…it wasn’t safe anymore. I was so scared for him.
I wanted to say something…I wanted to know what happened to those little girls. Maybe I could save them…maybe we could find him.
But he didn’t call the house again. He knew by my voice as I hung up that I was no longer a little girl and that I now knew what he was doing.
I’ve never told my family. I’ve never really told anyone the whole story because the words would never come out. My brain stops them and words cease. It makes me disgusted to think about it. And it disgusts me that I never knew…that he has probably picked another little girl to call and play his game with. That there are likely scores of children he has terrorized and is still continuing to terrorize. And I feel so much guilt that I have done nothing, that I never realized. And I feel so relieved that he never came after me, never touched me, never thrusted into me saying, “that’s a good girl, good girl…easy…good Leila…that’s the way.” And I feel so angry that the world is so very ugly.
But I am still very much afraid. That maybe the man will appear in my life again, but not as a disembodied voice on the other end of a phone line…but in the ugly flesh. And he’s come to ensure that I remain silent because I know. I know.