This post contains a free-written story. It may be triggering to some.
I am four years old.
The room I’m in is dark and the walls are bare.
I’m lying on a queen sized mattress, it has no frame and is covered by only a fitted sheet.
The light by the door is on, cascading an ugly yellow light across the wall panels, the door is adjared.
Although I’ve been awake since arriving to this play-date, it seems I’ve just awoken. I’ve just noticed my surroundings, and how cold I am.
My shirt is off, and my pants are unzipped.
I begin to panic as my friend crawls onto the bed and hovers over me. He leans down and kisses my stomach.
Then he spits on me.
My panic begins to swirl into disgust, as I desperately throw myself off the bed. I find my shirt and fix my pants.
I lift my eyes up to a large picture on the wall. It’s Jesus, with long brown hair and a gentle look in his eye. But He’s swallowed up in the shadow of the door, in the darkness.
I run for the phone in the kitchen.
When I throw open the bedroom door, no more than 10 feet away his parents sit watching Animal Planet. As I dial my moms number on the old rotary phone, intending to plead for her to pick me up, the boy comes running out,
“Come back, we need to finish having sex! I haven’t finished!”
I freeze. My body feels empty, but heavy, and my ears are ringing. None of this is right. His mom gasps but remains seated, while his dad jumps up, exclaiming,
“You shut your mouth, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Sex is something only grown ups do!”
My mom picks me up, without me having to give her an explanation. I’m glad for that, because I’m ashamed. I’m only four years old, but I know what happened was wrong.
The play-dates continued for four years. They moved closer as their family grew, to the same block where my mom and I lived. As his mom and dad became more distracted with his siblings, he became more persistent and violent. And it became almost impossible for me to stop him.
The one time I tried to speak out was useless. My “friend” had told someone, an older boy (about 16 y.o.) with a foul mouth and no regard for my feelings. He taunted me on the school bus in front of all my schoolmates and the bus driver, calling me a whore, telling me how I should be having sex with him and not my “friend”. I was humiliated. I tried to defend myself, I tried to tell them it wasn’t my choice, that I had no control. That I didn’t want it. But they all just laughed. By the time the bus finally rolled up to my stop, it seemed the entire bus was laughing at me. What was the bus driver thinking? Where were all of the adults when I needed them?
I walked home alone, the cold air biting the streaks left by my tears. I didn’t speak out again for eight years.
Some time after the bus event, and after my reputation was already lost (can a third grader really have a bad reputation?), I finally found the courage to run away from his house during one of his “shock collar” charades (these were HORRIFIC. I won’t even repeat in type the things this child did to me). I never went back, and I screamed or ran (if possible) any time I was near him without an adult immediately present.
By then, though, too many other children, all looking for someone to take their anger and confusion out on, had heard my name come from his mouth and knew I was an easy target.
Some of them had already begun abusing me.