Abuse: The Complete Trilogy by Nikki Sex Page A

says. “They do not know why they act in the
manner they do. And you? You have only just begun to understand why you isolate
yourself so fully.”
    “Yes.”
    “We know your
brother also suffered under your father’s hands, but you never spoke to him
about his, or of your own abuse.” André’s lips purse in disapproval. “The
father, he prevented such natural communication, intentionally leading your
family into a collusion of secrecy and denial. Le père— the father,” he
says. “Now, he burns in Hell.”
    To my complete
surprise, right out of the blue, my counselor crosses himself. He does it
automatically, as some mark of respect to God, I guess.
    Sometimes I
forget he was raised Catholic.
    Our family is Evangelical
Protestant, and we attend church every Sunday. As long as I can remember our
father said, “The Wilkinson’s always set a good example to others.”
    As a child, I
learned to fear God. As I got older, I realized I didn’t actually believe in
him. It’s another big secret.
    The Christian
faith calls believers to love the sinner but hate the sin. When it comes to
sin, our Church had homosexuality near the top of the list. That was part of
the reason why I so feared my obsession with dicks—our church said it was a
sin.
    Isn’t it strange
how completely your upbringing can mold you? Now, I believe my father was not
only a pedophile, but he also preferred men. Was the whole church thing his way
to hide what he was? Or maybe he genuinely believed going to church would
absolve him from his sins.
    Love the sinner;
hate the sin.
    I loved and hated
the sinner. I loved and hated the sin.
    If my father is burning
in Hell, I figure he deserves it. He certainly made my life hell.
    André notices
when he has my attention once more, and continues, “When you are strong and
stable, it would be in your best interest to expand into these areas.” His
pencil taps the ring one level out from the center. “Now, you are free to talk
to others of what happened. For your father, he has destroyed more than one
life, yes?”
    No!
    The idea of
discussing dad’s “games” just about makes my head implode. My breath catches as
ice water suddenly runs in my veins and my heart begins to hammer. Talk to
someone —anyone —about my shame? No ! Not gonna happen! How could I
face that ?
    André’s eyes
widen as he registers the shock and dread in my expression.
    I close my eyes
tightly as nausea churns my stomach. I can barely live with myself, with
what I’ve done. How could I speak to anyone else of such hideous memories? I
imagine anger, rejection and revulsion on the face of others.
    I can hear my
mother saying to me, “Grant, how could you? Why would you make up such
appalling lies?”
    A wave of
darkness flows over me.
    I feel as if I
may pass out.
    “Il est bien,
mon ami,” he says, and grabs my wrist, squeezing it hard before I
fall into a black hole.
    When I open my
eyes, he lets go of me.
    “Do not fear,
Grant. This move should not be taken— must not be taken—until you are
confident in yourself. Not until it is your wish, n'est-ce pas? Non,
non , non! All must be right for you .”
    As a gesture of
honesty, he puts his hand to his heart. “Never! I vow. Of a certainty, I do not
force you to do something you are not ready to do.”
    I lay flat on my
back, trying to calm my galloping heartbeat and slow my breathing. I remember
then. André knows my past and doesn’t despise me. He’s OK with it. And he
understands the evils of this world. He’s heard it all before.
    “Sorry,” I say,
when I’ve somewhat recovered from what could only be considered a momentary rush
of full-blown panic.
    “There is nothing
to be sorry for. It is my mistake. I did not make myself clear. This,” he
points to the bullseye that represents my life, “the center signifies you. You
are the most important. All begins with you. It is you who has had the
courage to face your past.”
    He taps the tip
of his pencil on to