This story contains mature or graphic content.
I made her promise and she did. So I told her what I had done and the threat my brother had said. She chewed me out for what I did, but also she said she still loved me, then she had me put my brother on the phone and really let him have it. After she hung up my brother said I was stupid because he would had never told them anything. I didn’t know this, I just know I didn’t want to have sex with him. My grandmother came and got me, took me to her house, then went down to the bar my mother owned and told her what happen, my mother said I probably deserved it. Because I was nothing but a whore.
There is the pot calling the kettle black. She had a lot of room to talk, as seeing I wasn’t allowed to run around with the nice girls because of her. When my brother turned sixteen, he moved to Baytown, to meet his real dad. That’s when the beatings got worse. My brother was always her favorite. My brother stayed there till his real dad died, which my brother was eighteen, so he didn’t get to be with him very long before he died. Matter fact his dad died three minutes before my thirteen birthday. My uncle moved in after my brother left for Bay Town. He stayed with us for about six months I think. I woke up one night with my pj bottoms off and my uncle was licking me in my private part. I asked him what he was doing and he said to lay back down and enjoy it. How can a thirteen-year-old enjoy being violated by her uncle. He said he could not help himself, he had to do it. I can’t remember how many times he did it to me. He would never touch his daughter, just me. That is why I thought something was wrong with me. Even my grandmother’s neighbor would force his hand up my shirt and feel me, then I didn’t have anything. Then one night I slept over at my girlfriend’s house, I was about fifteen and I woke up with her brother molesting me. You know after a while you just give up. This section is the hardest for me to write, I have been putting it off for days. Don’t ask me why. I guess I just don’t want to talk about it. But I know that if I don’t I won’t ever get any better. I want to be happy for once.
I know there are things I still don’t remember, and maybe it is just as well that I don’t. The things I do remember are bad enough.