Dear, God –
She is no longer a child. I feared, yet expected rage’s attack on the body, but we found today mere objects would serve a welcome touch. Was I to blame? Most likely.
He called us into his room to receive our confession. I knew how this encounter would end. Upon hearing her name, a part of me desired to somehow take her place. The other was happy to share the expected pain. Later in life, there will be those who attempt to reassure me you were there, that you suffered with us. Why did you not intervene? You allowed me to walk in that room accompanied only by sickening fear. Countless times, I have imagined life before entering. Yet memory always ends in this room, trapped.
He perched himself on the closed toilet. The vivid image of our clothing haunts me, so that every time I recall this moment, I shove it deep inside. Not today.
“Turn around,” he said.
"Put your hands on the bar, " he continued.
I heard him remove his belt; I braced myself, squinting my eyes, preparing for its bite. To be honest, it wasn’t all that bad. That wasn’t the next touch I felt.
“Open your legs.”
Can imagination render what happened over the next few minutes, or is it only the ones, like me, corrupted by filth? I cannot help the reader of this letter, as my hope is it will not saturate a mind like it has mine. The lingering movement between my legs contorts my insides like a dishrag you long to rid of dirty water.
The wallpapered room suffocates me like the drywall beneath. I focus on everything and nothing, desiring freedom and embrace. Now, I try to remember and forget.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Was it over? My short life had no frame of reference for what was happening.
To say I had no idea what to do will never explain the suffocating inability overwhelming me. I once heard one speak of the taste and smell of fear? I immediately understood. Fear is acidic like vomit ascending in your throat. You want to rid yourself of it yet are so afraid it may never end. Your body then surrenders to its jolting, paralyzing release. The rancid smell both increases the desire for riddance and forbids its escape.
I will never rid myself of this day.
Dear Seven –
I see your first touch,
the foul smell of intent.
"Turn around," he spat.
Your first encounter with torment.
I recall your gasps, clothes, the wall;
the peeling paper attached,
memory begins to write upon.
How I wish to rip it;
to remove what it held -
Hold tight my child, I am here.
These are only the first steps
into the fiery depths of hell.