How can a mind carry a painful memory that haunts every night of your life? Where silence is your only choice to hold on to. Why can the innocence of a child be so pure yet at risk to be in danger? The thought of even remembering that night can be so hard to the point confusion takes over and creates the worst anxiety attack. Never intended to seek help because of how scary the response of assuring you that the worst moment of your life has been exposed. Such a fragile heart to even feel remorse for what she has done. The reality is we both were too young to ever understand how the situation escalated. It was a night like any other, she was just visiting. I can still remember what she was wearing, light brown shorts, white tank top, and her favorite gray glitter sandals. She was fourteen at the time. I was only eight years old. We sat in the living room just watching cartoons like any other kids. My grandma came up to us and asked her if she could babysit me while she went to church for like an hour and a half with pay and with no hesitation she said yes. I was just a kid, of course, I was not going to notice any odd behavior; she is my cousin. The moment my grandma headed to church she stood up and closed the front door and all the windows. I did not think anything wrong with it. It was getting dark and cold outside. Afterward, she told me to accompany her to the bathroom. Grandma said to follow her rules until she came back and so I did. I went to the bathroom with her and she immediately closed the door. She told me to sit on the floor and just to remind you, I was only eight. In my head, there was no malice or any ill will. As she was taking her sandals off to sit in front of me I can remember her words loud and clear saying; “Promise me that you won’t say anything about what we are going to do or else we won’t play together ever again.” Innocently my response was “I promise.” Now, I was wearing my pajama dress and she told me to take off my panties to make it easier for her. While I was doing that, she was taking her clothes off too. Up until this day, I can still feel the confusion going through my head at that moment. We sat on the floor again and she told me to open my legs and I can still remember her face being so scared telling me to not cry. She grabbed my hand and told me to do exactly what she was going to do to me. I asked plenty of times why were we doing this. Her response was to trust and to make us both feel good. She kept trying to convince me it was okay to do such things because she loves me, and I love her back. I was too ignorant to even understand what was going on. After repeatedly telling me to trust her and to promise to not say anything she began to touch me. I did not know what to do so she forcefully grabbed my hand again and made me do the same to her. At that age, no child knows what being raped even meant or anything that has to do with sexual practices. My grandma was not gone any longer than 30 minutes and that felt like an eternity for me. The only fear I had was that she was not going to play with me anymore. It is repulsive the thought of it being real. She started asking me how I felt and got mad at me for not knowing. I stopped and pushed her away. She grabbed me from my dress and told me to not dare say anything about what just happened, I began to cry. Suddenly, we hear the front door opening and she stood up and got dressed immediately. She pushed me out of the bathroom, told me to stop crying, and to remember the promise we made, or I would see the consequences. Luckily, my grandma had returned earlier from church and I could hear her calling my name. My cousin went up to her and just said she had to leave because her mom needed her. As soon as she is heading out the door my grandma looks at me and asked if everything was okay; I was just a child and seeing her behind my grandma waiting to see if I would say something only made me scared even more and so I kept the secret.
There’s something from my past that I’ve never really talked to anyone about. I’m not sure that I want to talk about it now, but I think about it every day. Despite this, I haven’t told anyone. Not a friend, not a boyfriend, not a relative, and most certainly not the internet. Sometimes I feel like I don’t have the right to talk about it, since I write erotica. Someone stronger than me would say that it doesn’t matter what my occupation is, he should never have touched me. I started writing the erotica after this event, but not because of it.
As a freshman in college, I had never been to high school, and therefore, really had little to no social life experience. I associated with adults primarily and didn't know how to interact with kids my own age (17). I had never really had any experiences with alcohol before and didn't really know what it would do to me.
Everyone has a dark past. Including Maryam. And hers is something too humiliating to tell. Too vivid to forget. A memory she so desperately prays to erase from her mind. Maryam always prays. Raised as a Muslim, she was taught and trained to oblige and beseech for God’s forgiveness. Five times a day. Yet she can never seem to shake off her past. It keeps lurking around. Stalking. Waiting to pounce and stab her in the back. The more she tries to break away, the more it strangles her. Her dark past is one odd story. One with no marked beginning nor definitive end.
My eyes appear in the dark, the jade encircling the noir. I maul an idea until I notice a rhythm, a pattern. My pupils focus; I see the downward motion—pushing, pulling, biting, I throw my head back, hands down, unleashing a compact bliss. My own depth darts to me, moving toward the French doors, looking for leaves that sway until the incapacitating winter. The wheat bristles wave and the leaves shake me. My mind runs to something banal as my hand runs down my body; my skin awakens. The twilight air flows in, and my mind, awake, turns toward my heart, inducing an anxious bliss that wakes me up and simultaneously kills me. To breathe at once into consciousness, an anxious flush makes way through nervous bundles and the axonal abyss, shooting stars into my heart. This rush is a shock that tumbles me into the darkness, into the woods and looking at myself while looking at everything else. The waking are startled in a hunt for green, seeking a letter that lost itself on its way to me. Like the purloined letter, I remain unaware of the message’s contents.