All of Me
I remember that night
when I was just eight
and Mom was passed out with
the glass still in her hand.
It plays in my head like a
scary movie
that never ends.
As I lay in my bed on
the edge of sleep,
a knife of dim light
washed over my pillow and disappeared.
I trembled as I listened to him
breathe in the dark.
*
He had never come into my room,
this man who lived with Mom.
He sat on my bed and the springs
shrieked in protest as
he placed his hand gently on my chest,
driving tears from my eyes,
the breath from my lungs,
and leaving a stain of fear
on my nightgown
where he touched me.
*
Still quiet,
he pulled my hands away from me to
a part of him that was
hot and swollen,
his pumping blood beating a
tempo against my hands
like tiny drums.
I cried out when he pushed his fingers
into a private part of me
and cut me into
small pieces.
I closed my eyes and hid what was left
in a hollow place
deep inside me.
*
He moved my hands on
himself, breathing more quickly until
he made a small sound and
there was wetness on my
hands and arms
that felt like glue.
Don’t tell your mom
what you did, he said,
and left as quietly as he came.
*
He has invaded my room often
since that night,
but using that angry, hateful part of him
instead of fingers and
each time taking away
a small part of me.
*
Three years and
I have nothing left.
He has taken away
all of me
that was me.
I can give no more.
As he comes through my door,
eager,
bare and ready,
and climbs on my bed,
I reach beneath my pillow,
place the blade against his chest,
and watch as it disappears.
Hal C Clark – February 2011
Each year, thousands of children are sexually abused, usually by someone they know well. The children are scarred for the rest of their lives, although many eventually learn to cope with the pain. They don’t understand why these things happen to them, often believing it is their fault or that they deserve such treatment. We are all familiar with the stories of priests molesting young boys because these stories make the headlines. So many of the cases we never hear about, but the victims are still all around us. This is a cancer of our society and MUST be stopped.
I do not believe killing is the answer to anything, so it surprised me when the line “I reached beneath my pillow” came to me and I let the victim have the last word. It says something about the desperation, humiliation, degradation, and futility of the experience. I decided to let it stand. It is time to do something about this problem, and public awareness is the first step.
Please leave a comment and let me know how you feel.
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