My name is Girl. I am lain on a soggy bedsheet that smells of sweat and fluids stewed into a smell that nauseautes my senses, a musty odour that is no stranger to the doors and corridors of my nostrils.
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Just like every other dusk, out of habit than necessity, I would often find myself gawking into the sky from between the two avocado trees stood outside the window: at birds floating in the dimly lit sky above with a careless abandon that mocks dry leaves, at leaves rocking and swinging to the music of the wind, at God up in Heaven with questioning eyes on when I would sway about life care less as the bird or rock about freely at home like the leaves on their home of wood.
I don’t like my mother’s brother Uncle John. He makes me do things I don’t want to. He does to me stupid things I have been condemned to only feel and not word. One time ago sat out on the porch on the Friday of the last Easter celebration, he had forced thick clammy fingers callused from hardwork into my pee-hole whilst his free hand pushed an orange into my lips, times he was not squeezing and kneading the ‘oranges’ growing on my twelve-year-old chest. I almost had wetted my pants.
“Do you like it?” his voice had been husky - almost a whisper, and in his eyes had been fire that didn’t look any holy.
“Yes,” was all I could manage, lost in a world of emotions enough to unnerve my sanity.
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Beside us had been his dog-eared Bible and my notebooks, and I had wondered in awe if the God in his Holy Book supported his fingers lodged tightly in-between my fleshiness, when the exact same God condemned lustful desires of the flesh in Father’s copy. The God in Father’s Holy Book, also, wants him in His temple every hour of the day until late after dusk when he would steer into the compound worn out, tie hanging low and hair sat scruffy on his head, tired enough to manage just a few spoons until he would lay snoring on the couch, in a pool of devotionals and fat Bibles and motivationals.
Father is the aggressive kind of preacher who seems to be pissed off by the very sin as he speaks against them. Two christmases aback two cousins had shared a meal of laughter after feasting on the joke Father had the habit of inventing most of the sins he spoke against, like how terribly evil it was for a boy to dwell on admiration of a girl, and how the worst way a girl could annoy God is by having the number of the boy who throws her glances. My brows would on their own order furrow into a frown each time Father broached the subject from this feeling of betrayal that would leave my eyes sullen, my lower lip clutched between my upper and lower teeth. I have always been admired by an evil demon Father housed and couldn’t cast out.
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Perhaps God is just too busy running the world, or I am just flat out on luck, maybe. He just never would save me, probably doesn’t even know my voice. But I want to sneak Him a barrage of questions this evening I’m soaked in the guilt of someone else’s lust - if He by any chance stopped being the God of the abused and broken and hopeless and humiliated, if the buttons of flesh on my breast were as important to Uncle Johns’s survival as the sucking sound from his salivary mouth suggested, if it was right to allow Uncle John bury all of his phallus in my tender pee-hole, and why my body had to sometimes betray me to such lustful touches...........
Abuse must be condemned very strongly....
Thanks for sharing
And this name uncle scares the heck out of me. So many of them have destroyed a couple of young girls. They have contributed largely to the number of broken girls we have.
We all should he wary of that uncle, many of them have bad intentions.
Another set are those ones who call little girls "my wife"....terrible pieces of shit.