Warning: This work has been rated 18+ for language and mature content.
I'm glad you've never had to feel his unwanted, inexperienced hands of puberty run across your fragile innocence. I'm glad you've never had to feel like you were "used goods." I'm so glad that you have never had to go through years of what actually happened to you, wondering if it even happened, yearning to know if those memories were a product of your imagination or if they were just locked away by the people who raised you.
I'm glad you've never had to wonder what the hell it was called. I'm glad you've never had the want -the need- to tell someone so desperately about him poisoning your innocence but never knowing how because you were seven. How do you tell someone that he raped you when you don't even know what the word "rape" is?
I'm glad you've never had to wonder what happened in that room because, fuck, sometimes all I do is wonder. I want to know what happened because I want to understand why the hell what happened to me was passed off as nothing.
Maybe he denied everything, and they believed him. That wouldn't surprise me. They never believed me about anything, especially when I was seven. Or maybe he owned up to it, and they just didn't care or they just gave him a slap on the wrist.
You'd think they'd have called the cops or at least kept him the fuck away from me, but no. They acted like it was nothing. They don't know how it felt to be in that room, to be so exposed in a way that no seven-year-old should ever be exposed in. Anyone who goes through that is confused and scared.
Your body goes numb, except for the feeling of him going in and out of you. You try to find something else to think about because you know it isn't going to stop. The more you fight it, the worse it is for you. You look for anything else, whether it be the pattern on the carpet or the number tiles in each row and column on the ceiling or the day when your life changed forever.
The thing you end up finding become the thing you say in your sleep when you can even sleep. It's what burns into your head, and at 3 a.m., it's what your mumbling over and over again as your huddled up with your back against the corner.
You sit there and rock yourself back and forth, back and forth, repeatedly, trying to remind yourself that you are still alive. No matter how numb you still feel, you are still alive. And you can still feel him inside of you.
It's 3 a.m., and all I can feel is the slight pressure from my back hitting the corner and him inside of me. All I can hear is myself barely getting out, "February 9th, 2008."