I’d tried in vain to erase from my memory. In the beginning I threatened to tell my dad, my mom, and Uncle Priest, but at Eli’s threat to hurt Priss the same way as he was hurting me, I stayed quiet. I wouldn’t let him hurt her. More than that, I couldn’t. It didn’t matter what happened to me, as long as Priss stayed safe and unharmed everything would be okay. He knew that too. Eli knew she was the only leverage he had on me. That there was nothing else he could use to keep me quiet, available, and at his mercy. He utilized that threat often. Sparing none of the details when he explicitly described what he would do to my sister if I ever breathed a word to anyone.
No less than twenty incisions marred my body after that first day. The helplessness, desperation, and fear of how I’d hide them from the people I loved struck deep. But I knew I would. I knew I would find a way to keep them hidden from sight no matter what.
Being young, I didn’t know how I’d stop the bleeding either. Eli threw a towel at me after he was done wiping his knife on it, and told me to clean myself up. That was it. No offers of help, not that I would have willingly let him touch me after that anyway. But there was nothing. Just clean yourself up, then he left, and I was finally alone.
The towel may have been a plush, fluffy one, but it abraded my ruined skin like sandpaper. The stinging pain it caused everywhere I gently wiped, brought fresh tears to my eyes, which meant it took far longer than Eli expected for me to make myself what he called presentable again. He had dragged me out of the bathroom by my hair telling me I was taking too long, that someone was going to get suspicious if I didn’t hurry, and I couldn’t help the twinge of hope I felt that someone would indeed come looking for me. That didn’t happen though, and it never would. No one found out about what he did to me, ever. Not until now.
In the darkness there was one thing I was grateful for. I was grateful he didn’t take my innocence. Not that day, or any day after. There were times when I thought he would. Times he couldn’t hide his excitement. He was turned on by the torture he was inflicting on me, but he didn’t take it further. While that may have given me a modicum of relief, what he did was already bad enough without shattering the remnants of my soul by violating me further. Because in my mind there’s nothing worse that could happen to a woman than that. Nothing. This I could deal with. Barely, but I could. But that…never. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to overcome something as horrific as being raped. Even as a child I knew that about myself.
Eventually the hundreds of slices turned to cuts that began to scab over. Then they transformed into thin silvery-white scars, a patchwork across my upper thighs. I would look at those marks, to be honest I still occasionally do, and wonder if the scars on my soul would ever heal as well as they did. I doubted it, highly doubted it, but I still prayed that one day someone would love me regardless of my disfigurement. Because that’s how I saw myself now, as disfigured. The only thing I was left unsure of was if those scars made me as ugly as they are. In time, as I grew up and became more at ease with who I am as a person I recognized they didn’t define me, but they definitely made up part of who I am. I learned to accept they would never go away, and that I would have to be okay with that.
I wouldn’t realize it then, not for many years come either, but there was something wrong with Eli. Very, very, horribly wrong. Not that it excused what he did to me, far from it. Nothing could excuse that, but knowing what I do now, if I could hazard a guess, his behavior never changed in the time he was gone, nor would it ever.
I didn’t tell anyone about what went on during that period of my life, and even I could see I desperately needed help sorting out the conflicting emotions
No less than twenty incisions marred my body after that first day. The helplessness, desperation, and fear of how I’d hide them from the people I loved struck deep. But I knew I would. I knew I would find a way to keep them hidden from sight no matter what.
Being young, I didn’t know how I’d stop the bleeding either. Eli threw a towel at me after he was done wiping his knife on it, and told me to clean myself up. That was it. No offers of help, not that I would have willingly let him touch me after that anyway. But there was nothing. Just clean yourself up, then he left, and I was finally alone.
The towel may have been a plush, fluffy one, but it abraded my ruined skin like sandpaper. The stinging pain it caused everywhere I gently wiped, brought fresh tears to my eyes, which meant it took far longer than Eli expected for me to make myself what he called presentable again. He had dragged me out of the bathroom by my hair telling me I was taking too long, that someone was going to get suspicious if I didn’t hurry, and I couldn’t help the twinge of hope I felt that someone would indeed come looking for me. That didn’t happen though, and it never would. No one found out about what he did to me, ever. Not until now.
In the darkness there was one thing I was grateful for. I was grateful he didn’t take my innocence. Not that day, or any day after. There were times when I thought he would. Times he couldn’t hide his excitement. He was turned on by the torture he was inflicting on me, but he didn’t take it further. While that may have given me a modicum of relief, what he did was already bad enough without shattering the remnants of my soul by violating me further. Because in my mind there’s nothing worse that could happen to a woman than that. Nothing. This I could deal with. Barely, but I could. But that…never. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to overcome something as horrific as being raped. Even as a child I knew that about myself.
Eventually the hundreds of slices turned to cuts that began to scab over. Then they transformed into thin silvery-white scars, a patchwork across my upper thighs. I would look at those marks, to be honest I still occasionally do, and wonder if the scars on my soul would ever heal as well as they did. I doubted it, highly doubted it, but I still prayed that one day someone would love me regardless of my disfigurement. Because that’s how I saw myself now, as disfigured. The only thing I was left unsure of was if those scars made me as ugly as they are. In time, as I grew up and became more at ease with who I am as a person I recognized they didn’t define me, but they definitely made up part of who I am. I learned to accept they would never go away, and that I would have to be okay with that.
I wouldn’t realize it then, not for many years come either, but there was something wrong with Eli. Very, very, horribly wrong. Not that it excused what he did to me, far from it. Nothing could excuse that, but knowing what I do now, if I could hazard a guess, his behavior never changed in the time he was gone, nor would it ever.
I didn’t tell anyone about what went on during that period of my life, and even I could see I desperately needed help sorting out the conflicting emotions
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