Note: This piece was written in 2018, for Highschool Writers Craft. It covers heavy themes of non-consensual touching and pedophilia, so please don't read if you don't feel comfortable. Take care!
“You’re dead!” she called, pudgy fingers pointed at my form.
I flopped down, head lolling and tongue sticking out of my lips, taking on the form that would please all the other children in the bedroom.
“Blegh,” I said, bringing them into further glee. Their laughter rang louder than the basketball Liam was throwing into the hoop on the door. This was fun. Their eyes twinkled as Avery continued to ‘kill me’ and ‘bring me back’. Brayden was nestled on the carpet by my side; Clara played with the stuffed snowy tiger.
The thudding of the basketball stopped, replaced by the creaking of the door.
A deeper chuckle cut through all of ours. My lips clamped shut.
HE stood in front of me now, listening as Avery retold the wonders of our game. HIS socks were gray against the beige carpet.
HIS pants were tucked in his button-up shirt. The colour is no longer distinguishable to me.
HIS glasses did nothing to dull the twinkle in his eye. They gleamed in a way that made me want to run away.
I wanted to leave, now.
I wanted to move, but everything burned. I couldn’t.
Help.
HE reached his hand out to me. I don’t want to take it, but I don’t want to seem rude.
HIS finger twitches.
Instinctively, I smile to hide my discomfort and grasp his hand. It engulfs mine. Covers it in whole.
The glint in HIS eyes brightens as HE brings me up and closer to him. I push down my unease.
It’s okay. It won’t happen again. It was an accident. I’m in a room full of children, HE won’t do it again in front of them.
But HE did it before. Right in front of them.
I feel suffocated. Trapped. HIS arm casually drapes across my waist, hand sliding lower than the day before; lower than when there were adults present.
It lays on my ass and HE squeezes.
I want to cry. I can’t move.
HE knows it.
HE sees that I’m trapped. That I can’t move.
His eyes tear into mine. Can he see that I’m panicking? Can he see I want to go home? I want Aidan. He’s not here. I want my Dad - he’s never gonna be here. I want Mama. I want Matt. Anyone. I want anyone who would realize and help.
I catch Liam's eyes while I fall further into my mind. He looks confused.
He finally is starting to understand.
He was there the first time.
But he didn’t understand then, he was too young.
He’s still too young.
I’m squeezed again and I look back into HIS eyes. HE smiles and says something I can’t understand anymore. My blood is pumping in my ears.
HIS arm brings me flush against his form. HIS lips are hovering over mine again. HE squeezes me. I fell his lips pressed against mine.
Then I feel his lips move.
When I was younger, I had a ‘boyfriend’. We used to sneak into his basement and hide behind his rocking chair; pressed flat against each other and the wall. His lips used to touch mine like this. Both mine and his would move against each other, and he would taste like milk. This was a ‘wedding kiss’ as he would call it.
This MAN did not taste like milk. HE tasted like sour alcohol.
HE pulls back chuckling. I’m sure I’m flushed pale, and he may think it’s from what he did.
HE’S wrong. It’s from horror.
A horror and shock I see in Liam’s face before I’m pulled back into another kiss, screaming at myself to push against him. To scream to the world for help; to do anything but subconsciously submit to him in a way that keeps HIM going.
I wanna go home.
HE pulls apart and says more nonsense just before my mom enters.
HE smiles at her and leaves when she mentions all of us are needed downstairs. Liam darts down after him, his face showing how conflicted he is. Avery, Clara, and Brayden run after him, unaware of what actually just happened. Theirs is the type of family that places chaste kisses on the lips rather than on the cheek. They share kisses with HIM, their GRANDFATHER, all the time.
I can still taste his lips.
I’m crying as she, my mother, pulls me into a hug.
I’m crying as she attempts to soothe me.
I’m crying as she tries to coax me into telling me what happened.
And I do.
It spills from my lips, words burning my throat, alcohol burning my tongue.
“He kissed me,” I said to her, “he kissed me twice. In front of Liam and Clara and Avery and Brayden-” I want to scream cry, to scream and wail while I’m safe in her embrace.
She mutters about how she should have noticed sooner. She apologizes, but it goes in one ear and out the other.
I’m shutting down again.
I’m doing the only thing I’m good at.
Shutting down; mentally running away.