I sense a change in Uncle’s tone and in our routine. He sits in his chair and spreads his legs. “Sit.” He beacons with his deep throaty voice. Each word creeps out like molasses. It’s as if he has been sedated. The air becomes thick and suffocating. He touches my breast. I stiffen. My world goes mute. I can no longer form words. I can no longer hear the earth. I am transformed to another dimension.
For three hours I pray. Screaming silently in my head. The whole time cosmically reaching out for anyone or anything to hear me. Daddy!!! Mummy!!! Brother!!! Cousins!!! Auntie!!! God!!! Hear me! No tears. Just the stench of betrayal.
I can recognize that smell anywhere, any time. See it at a glance. It is why I write this journal. My children must know. Though I write this chronicle in secret, I want my family to have it for generations to come. No one should be condemned to relive the repulsive history my uncle has left behind as his legacy. A pitiful donation at best.
The mental stress and torment I was to experience would prove my strength. Ever my weakness was my naiveté’. I believed that a person could change. I believed almost everything. The experience of being “molested” for seven years, fashioned me into a most creative and ingenious individual. I made a vow to never allow the demented behavior of my uncle guide my intention or be a negative, controlling part of my life. If it could be my charge, I will be on pervert duty ‘til the day I die.
So, I fall for the cookies. I could not resist Aunties baking. Still cannot. I enter Uncle’s lair. He spreads his legs. I take the first cookie. He is in an overstuffed chair. He has an overstuffed body. I sit on the floor between his legs. He hands me another cookie. I change the channel to Andy Devine. I love his show. I enter that world. I am in control. Then Uncle touches me. At first I know it’s an accident. Then it becomes clear. His touch is deliberate. He forces me to stay seated. I struggle, but he is strong. Why is he doing this? I am uneasy and alone now with no way out. I cannot move or speak. Uncle is talking to me. All I hear are low tones. Deep contemptible words in a foreign language. Unfamiliar actions. He caresses my breast. I am no longer proud of them. I want them to melt away. Now he has both breasts in his meaty hands. He is behind me. Thank God I cannot see his face. I smell his body. I smell his breath. I am dead. I am rightfully overwrought. Does he not know how distressed and broken-hearted I am? He was so nice to me for so long. Subsequent to today, memory says we always had loving years where I trusted him completely. He let me have my way. He treated me so special. Had it been his plan to gain my trust from the start. Did he groom me for this?
One would think that once is enough. But my silence cursed me. I did not say anything about Uncle. Nothing about my uncomfortability. Nothing. I eat dinner and go to sleep on the antique couch that was Grandmothers. I am named after her. The couch is always my “makeshift bed” and it is feather soft, warm and inviting. I fall to rest. I dream of my body. It is that of a grown woman. I dream romantic dreams. I am with my husband. He has no face. Am I twenty? God no! I am still ten. What is Uncle doing? Is it not enough that he ruined my day? Now he is in my night. His thick hand glides over my flannel nightie. The covers are off. Hands now under my gown. To him, I stay asleep. To me, I scream the silent scream that I will use for the duration of Uncles offensive.
