After I got old enough to sit on my own, and then walk and feed myself—people for the most part left me alone. It was almost as if I wasn’t even there—almost. I was noticed if I got in someone’s way and shoved to the side. I was noticed when I cried and sometimes my cries were quickly suppressed by the closest person to me. I realized early in my life that no one was interested in hearing my voice—for any reason. This was made abundantly clear when I started talking—the response I heard most was—“shut up!” My mother tried, I guess to the best of her ability, but she was outnumbered and was not always around to see what was being done to me. Left at the table unable to get down on my own, locked into the bathroom, unable to leave when I finished doing what I was supposed to do, and left out of feeling loved and wanted—because no one wanted me, not even my mother, I began to think.
As time
moved forward and I began to sprout—up and outward—my brothers began to pay more
attention to me than they should have. They began touching me and making
me squirm with the comments they made. I told my sister and she just
shrugged it off saying, “That’s the way they are. They’ll stop sooner or
later.” My sister was three years older than I was so I thought she knew
what she was talking about. It turned out she didn’t. The boys were
all older than us—the oldest one was seven years older than me, the next one
was five years older than me and then there was my sister. By the time I was
ten—I had been molested by both of my brothers and no one believed me when I
tried to tell it. My sister just rolled her eyes, my mother didn’t have
time to hear it, and my daddy—he looked me real funny-like. Things got so bad;
I simply stopped trying to talk and learned how to fight. I left so many
scratches and bite marks on them, they finally left me alone, but there I
was—left to think that this is what life on the outside was all about.
Right
after I turned twelve another trap was set for me. My daddy finally
noticed me—at least he noticed my budding bosom and started teasing me. At
least I thought he was teasing me until he started touching me—telling me how
pretty I was and how I was going to have to fight off the boys. When he
said that, I remembered thinking, “I’ve already had to fight off my brothers,
how hard could it be?” I was going to learn.
While
Mama was at work one night—she worked two jobs; one during the day and one at
night—my daddy decided to play a game with me. It wasn’t a game that I
liked since it involved him touching me and grinning at me. I remember
his eyes clouding over as if someone had turned on a fog machine and the fog
lingered in his eyes and his fingers groping me in places where they should
never have explored. He always told me our game was a secret and no one
else could know, but I didn’t trust him and I certainly didn’t like his
game. I tried telling my sister, but she just told me shut up and deal
with it. He had played the same game with her. “And there’s no
point in telling Mama,” she warned. “I tried and she didn’t believe
me.” I found that hard to believe so I tried telling Mama.
“Shush,
girl.” She said. “You know yo daddy didn’t do nothin’. He was just
playin’ around with you. He’s like that.” She sighed and went to
her room and went to sleep.
For two
years, I endured “daddy’s game” until one night he forced himself upon me. I
was a big girl, but I couldn’t keep him from entering me and when I screamed—he
quickly covered my mouth so tight that I passed out. I remember drifting
off into another world where people wanted me and kept me safe. When I
woke up, the sheets on my bed were bloody and tangled and I screamed, and
screamed until my mother came into the room. All I could do was point and
scream. When she saw the blood, she visibly paled and walked out the
room. I couldn’t believe she just walked out—never attempting to comfort
me or to reassure me things would be all right. Her reaction unnerved me,
but I finally got up and went to the bathroom to clean myself—horrified at the
thought of my daddy had done to me. Before I could get out of the
bathroom, I heard the sound of pistol shot. Terrified, at first I could
not move, then when I heard my sister scream, I catapulted out the door.
I could not see anyone, but I could hear crying and as I walked down the
hallway, I saw my daddy lying in the floor and my mama standing over him with a
45 revolver in her hand. I didn’t even know we had a gun in the
house. I think she heard my stifled gasp and she turned around.
“I’m
sorry. I should have listened to you a long time ago. He’ll never
touch you again,” she said woodenly, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so
sorry, I wish I could change things, but I know that I can’t, but I am truly sorry.”
She stood there still holding the gun. By the time we heard the sirens in
the distance, she had already made up her mind. She turned the gun on
herself and pulled the trigger.
This
excerpt from my latest book, Trapped, will be released by
Mid-February. The book reveals the lives of nine women who feel trapped
by circumstances, until they discover a way to overcome. If you'd like to
read more of this fantastic fiction, please stay tuned and don't be afraid to
offer some feedback. Blessings to you!
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