A memory
*Trigger warning*
You asked me to make it a little longer, that I tend to write things to short.
I only write when I have something worth sharing and I sit and ponder for hours sometimes days thinking of what to say. Having conversations with myself, my concious? Then when I put it into existance... I don't know it feels light, like an empty box. And I think that staring at my blank canvas I said all I need to say.
I want to say I was five and I want to say it hurt. I lock certain memories incase of emergency, fuel for hard times... Maybe it was the broken heart that released the cursed door that allowed for every blink to turn into a childs car ride. I'm still to dissacosiated to get out of the car. So I view these memories through stragers windows. Turning away at the sight of these ungodly acts but not truly feeling the pain.
When I see him speaking to me I can feel my hands being forced and I can feel the white tile. It was cold.
I remember his large palm carrying his oversized weight into the low of my spine almost as if he was trying to feel how far he reached inside my adolescent body. I feel a little cheated. Did I fight back before that? How did it go from getting water during mass to my first sexual encounter.
I open my eyes once more in order to get back to reality and avoid this shitty Netflix que that is my past. Until my reality becomes to hard to handle and I am forced to close my eyes to let the tears run out.
I'm a child in the car once more and the glimpses through these windows are a little clearer. Like an early Disney animation three sketch like shadows tower above me as I continue to shrink. He holds my nose and I try to scream for help as my mouth is filled. I gag and bite down before finding comfort in white tile. The tile is starting to cover in tears and saliva before red ink starts to bleed into the floor. I can't remember the pain but I know I was punished for fighting back. I don't actually know how strong they were maybe it was my small frame that allowed every kick to send my flying across the floor.
That's time is when I no longer could call it my fault. I knew if I wanted it to stop I had to finish it. To this day I have not been able to masturbate in the normal sense. I do not want to see my cum come out. I flinch in the fear that it will end up all over me. I fear womens hands anywhere near my penis, I say that I am tickelish but truly I'm afraid that it's wrong. What if they don't want to and just want it to be over.
I was passed around like this for years, I don't remember everytime... At least not yet. I wish I knew the pain. It's not my fault but the street lines and old raido that plays on these drives all say that I was to weak to defend myself and then I feel cold.
The cold you feel when your skin touches tile.