I was sexually abused by my father’s best friend’s son, who often came to our house.
I was around four; he was around twenty-five.
I only have three memories about it.
In the first one, the guests have come over so my mother is busy in the kitchen and my father is sitting with them in the drawing room. He, my abuser, tells my siblings and me that we should go upstairs and play. We all do. Everyone’s outside on the terrace. He picks me up and brings me inside and locks the door of the terrace, making sure none of my brothers and sisters comes in when he’s doing his ‘business.’ He takes me to one of the rooms and makes me stand on the table. I’m small enough that even after standing on the table I’m a little shorter than him. He pulls down my pants or whatever I was wearing then and starts touching me down there. Then he licks me down there. He opens the zip of his own pants and pulls it out and tell me to lick it like he licked mine but I say no. He isn’t forcing; he’s friendly, smiling the whole time, treating me like we’re just playing with my toys. The first memory ends.
In the second one, we’re in a washroom. It could’ve been the same day or a different one, I can’t recall. He makes me take off my pants and asks me to sit in a crouching position. Then he sits behind me. I can’t see him but after a while he pushes it inside me from the back. I scream a little because it hurts and he says, “Don’t scream! Are you crazy?” I shut up then because I don’t feel pain anymore, anyway. We’re like that for a few moments and then I feel something wet inside me. While writing this, I realize it must have been semen. At the time I thought it was pee.
In the last memory, I’m grown a little. I’m smarter. He’s sitting at the dining table and it’s just us children and him again. Or maybe it was my sister and me only. I don’t remember clearly. He pulls me to himself and I’m standing in between his legs. He must have done this before because I already know what he’s about to do and before he can take his hand down there, I pull away. He laughs and asks me what’s wrong and I just smile and shake my head. My sister looks at me, weirdly. He changes his seat so he’s sitting in the one closer to me. He tries to take my hand again and I pull back again. That’s it. That’s the end. It never happened again.
My reaction to all these cases is very strange. I don’t cry; I’m not scared; it’s just so… normal to me. He never threatens me but I still don’t tell anyone. I still haven’t. I’m seventeen and this is my first attempt at speaking out.
I don’t care about it. It happened; screw it. Nobody should find out. I only remember it when I read an article about rape or sexual abuse. It doesn’t interfere in my life. I live a happy, healthy, teenage life.
But then why am I writing about it? Why do I always feel like writing about it?
