So. When I was small, I loved to play with Littlest Pet Shops. They were these little plastic animals with these huge eyes and magnetic paws. They were awesome. And I used to make up all these stories with them. Particularly about my favorite one, this ugly dishwater grey kitten, getting sexually assaulted. My parents never really hung around while I played with my toys, so they never heard any of my stories. At first I thought it was normal, but. A lot of kids my age didn’t play like that. And then when I was older, I learned that my foster brother, after he had been taken out of the house and re-homed, raped two girls there. And it was like all these memories came clicking back into place. Mom finding bloody scratches on my private bits. Burning whenever I would pee, for no real reason. All the nightmares I had of big monsters trapping me in my bed. I’ve never had the courage to ask, or to say it out loud. I don’t know if I ever will. But I think my foster brother raped me when I was a little kid.
See, I have this memory. I was six. And I had dumped hot chocolate all over my lap. My mom put my in the tub and ran cold water on me to take the sting out, and then laid me in the play room with burn cream on my thighs and a towel over my lower half to rest while she yelled at my dad for making my cocoa too hot. And then my older brother came in. And I remember his hands on my back. And the towel being moved. And then it’s like the world goes dizzy and topsy turvey. The room spins. I know his hands are on me somewhere, but I can’t tell where. And I hear him ask “Doesn’t that feel good?”
Thinking about it makes me sick. Makes me wonder if that’s where I learned to play with my toys like that.
And then nearly fifteen years later, I got to experience an assault without the haze of childhood dissociation to temper the memory and repress it down.
She was my best friend. I cried the first time she kissed me, because she didn’t ask. I didn’t ask her to. I felt gross. I cried about it all night. But I thought, you know, it was a slip up. She wouldn’t take it any further. And then… well. Then she did.
I remember how she pinned me to the bed. one hand under my back and the other above my head. I remember how I couldn’t move. I remember wanting to say no. To say we were just friends. But she was bigger than me. Stronger. She’d thrown me around before while play fighting like I was a sack of feathers. So when she sat up and told me to take off my shirt, I listened. When she touched me, I didn’t move. When she ordered me to touch her, I did. The only thing I didn’t do was respond when she grabbed me by the hair and said, “Tell me you love me.” because my tongue was cemented to the roof of my mouth. I felt so disgusting. I remember rolling over when she finally let me go, staring at her open window. It was December, and freezing, and my blanket was a thin, crocheted thing that did nothing to keep me warm.
I laid there for hours, trying not to throw up. I felt like I shouldn’t have listened to her. But I had shut down, you know? I didn’t know what else to do.
I remember waking up and thinking about my brother. And my Littlest Pet Shops. And her hands on me. And I knew it was the exact same feeling. And I threw up. I threw up and threw up and threw up.
It’s been so long now. and I want to sleep under the bed to get away from it all.
I just wish it wasn’t real.