My parents had a friend. His name was Jeff and he was named our god father. Ish? I found a book of vaguely sexual poetry once that he’d written and given to my mom. I think that’s the thought that sticks in my mind the most. My parents divorced, and by parents, I mean mother and step-father, so I didn’t see “dad” after that.
When I was 15, Jeff came to visit. He took my friends and I out in his shiny red sports car rental… got us all drunk and high. He kissed me and told me he’d see me soon.
I got sick the next day. I threw up for a week and forgot about the whole awkward situation. I didn’t know how to verbalize the feelings sitting in my stomach.
Fast forward to spring break that year, my mom came in and told me I was going to Manhattan to spend it with “Uncle Jeff”. I was desperate enough to get out of the small town to roll the dice and risk a little of my life and limbs. So I did. I went. He picked me up from the airport and I knew immediately that I had made a huge mistake.
My mom was on her first romantic vacation in years. I wasn’t about to ruin it. I come from resilient stock. I gritted my teeth and smiled through every demoralizing moment.
Fake ID. New clothes. Wax.
I had really wanted to see the Statue of Liberty.
Ecstasy. Jello shots. Cocaine.
I was so sad that I hadn’t been nice to my mom before I left because I was sure I was going home in a bodybag. I felt hollow and started to cry, which was the first time he slapped me.
I was stunned silent, so I suppose that’s why they do that.
He marched me back out into the bar and to the pool table. I was spinning in circles mentally and picked a ball up off the table, and he hit me again. Someone picked me up off the floor and I felt him yank me by the hand out the door. Quickly in another bar, with another drink in my hand while he wiped my confused tears away. Unable to swallow, he drank the cocktail he bought me and led me home via a subway full of distant strangers. I was certainly not in Kansas anymore.
I cried quietly and he stopped looking at me. 23 minutes later I was locked into his apartment and he punished me for being a girl about the whole thing. It was the first and last time that a man hit me and I am both ashamed and proud of that. My mama heart aches for the little girl who died that day.
He raped me, violently; while the Beatles “When I’m 64.” played to the right side of my swollen face. I still feel sick to my stomach when I hear the Beatles and that makes me the saddest of all.
Fucker… he ruined the Beatles for me, forever.
I came home and got physically ill. I told my mom, told a detective and he was prosecuted, tried and convicted.
We’ve never spoken of it, since… and she still has that book.
(The aftermath: https://wp.me/p3AI9-1aK)