abrupt stop that had my body colliding with the wall, sending the photo frames hanging on it crashing to the floor.
At this point I wasn’t scared or hurt. I was confused as to why he looked so angry with me, and upset that I’d done something to make him mad at me, but not scared. In the eyes of an eight-year old that worshiped the ground he walked on, upsetting my Uncle was the last thing I wanted to do. I apologized profusely, begging him not to be angry with me, and promising to not do whatever had upset him again, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. Uncle Eli wasn’t listening, instead he was glaring at me with such menace that I began to retreat into my own head.
This was a problem for me. When things got too overwhelming, or I didn’t know how to deal with something I tended to go inside myself until I felt it was safe to come out or someone drew me out. Either way, it was a common reaction to stress for me. One that happened a little too frequently if you were to ask my dad. For me it was just a way to sort things out. I’d always been more of a thinker than a talker, and I didn’t really see that changing. Regardless that this was part of me, it was in my make-up to be like this, my dad told me I would have to try harder to let people in. That I had to let people help me sometimes. I still hadn’t mastered that skill, even though I was trying, but at that moment in time I was glad I hadn’t.
Uncle Eli dragged me down the hall behind him, he was still gentle enough with his grip that it didn’t hurt per se, but I knew I couldn’t get free even if I tried with all my might. Maybe that’s what I should have done. Fought harder for him to let me go, but I didn’t. Call it terror, panic, or shock, whatever you like, but I didn’t fight him. I let him take me to his room, sit me on the edge of his huge bed, and I said not a word when he went to the chest he kept in the bottom of his closet and pulled out something long, shiny, and deadly.
It’s funny what you notice when you’re in a life threatening or stressful situation. It’s as if your mind protects you from trauma, replacing fear inducing visions with ones that intrigue you instead. Things like; were beds really this big? How did he fit it through the front door of his house? Because honestly, it was a really, really, big bed. It had to have been custom made for him. A California King, and then some. See, strange.
Stripping his hunting knife from its sheath, Uncle Eli walked toward me with great big strides, eating up the distance between us in seconds. I still wasn’t scared though. No, it had gone way past that. Now, I was freaking terrified. The large blade reflected light off the walls, so that strips of light illuminated the usually gloomy grey of his bedroom. Again, I thought it strange that my mind wandered to thinking; how could such beauty be created by something so sinister?
Then I remember nothing but the slice of the blade searing the tender skin on the inside of my thigh. Over and over again, the burning agony of it tearing through my flesh as I screamed for him to stop. That’s what I remember the most about that day. That I begged and cried for my Uncle to let me go, but that he didn’t listen. He didn’t flinch once at my pleas that became nothing more than pitiful cries. They began to ebb to whimpers after more than ten minutes of the most intense pain I’d ever felt, and I just knew that I’d never be the same. Never again.
A large section of both of my upper inner-thighs was bleeding profusely. Caused by the perfectly straight lines crisscrossed over them that he’d carved permanently into my skin. I knew they would never heal completely. I also knew I would be forever scarred by his anger. Not only by his blade, but by the ability to trust that he’d stolen from me.
That wasn’t the only time it happened. There were so many more times over the years that I’d lost count. So many that
At this point I wasn’t scared or hurt. I was confused as to why he looked so angry with me, and upset that I’d done something to make him mad at me, but not scared. In the eyes of an eight-year old that worshiped the ground he walked on, upsetting my Uncle was the last thing I wanted to do. I apologized profusely, begging him not to be angry with me, and promising to not do whatever had upset him again, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. Uncle Eli wasn’t listening, instead he was glaring at me with such menace that I began to retreat into my own head.
This was a problem for me. When things got too overwhelming, or I didn’t know how to deal with something I tended to go inside myself until I felt it was safe to come out or someone drew me out. Either way, it was a common reaction to stress for me. One that happened a little too frequently if you were to ask my dad. For me it was just a way to sort things out. I’d always been more of a thinker than a talker, and I didn’t really see that changing. Regardless that this was part of me, it was in my make-up to be like this, my dad told me I would have to try harder to let people in. That I had to let people help me sometimes. I still hadn’t mastered that skill, even though I was trying, but at that moment in time I was glad I hadn’t.
Uncle Eli dragged me down the hall behind him, he was still gentle enough with his grip that it didn’t hurt per se, but I knew I couldn’t get free even if I tried with all my might. Maybe that’s what I should have done. Fought harder for him to let me go, but I didn’t. Call it terror, panic, or shock, whatever you like, but I didn’t fight him. I let him take me to his room, sit me on the edge of his huge bed, and I said not a word when he went to the chest he kept in the bottom of his closet and pulled out something long, shiny, and deadly.
It’s funny what you notice when you’re in a life threatening or stressful situation. It’s as if your mind protects you from trauma, replacing fear inducing visions with ones that intrigue you instead. Things like; were beds really this big? How did he fit it through the front door of his house? Because honestly, it was a really, really, big bed. It had to have been custom made for him. A California King, and then some. See, strange.
Stripping his hunting knife from its sheath, Uncle Eli walked toward me with great big strides, eating up the distance between us in seconds. I still wasn’t scared though. No, it had gone way past that. Now, I was freaking terrified. The large blade reflected light off the walls, so that strips of light illuminated the usually gloomy grey of his bedroom. Again, I thought it strange that my mind wandered to thinking; how could such beauty be created by something so sinister?
Then I remember nothing but the slice of the blade searing the tender skin on the inside of my thigh. Over and over again, the burning agony of it tearing through my flesh as I screamed for him to stop. That’s what I remember the most about that day. That I begged and cried for my Uncle to let me go, but that he didn’t listen. He didn’t flinch once at my pleas that became nothing more than pitiful cries. They began to ebb to whimpers after more than ten minutes of the most intense pain I’d ever felt, and I just knew that I’d never be the same. Never again.
A large section of both of my upper inner-thighs was bleeding profusely. Caused by the perfectly straight lines crisscrossed over them that he’d carved permanently into my skin. I knew they would never heal completely. I also knew I would be forever scarred by his anger. Not only by his blade, but by the ability to trust that he’d stolen from me.
That wasn’t the only time it happened. There were so many more times over the years that I’d lost count. So many that
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