“Oh, you’re such a good girl, waiting for me. I see you’re excited for a piece of chocolate cake,” Uncle Bruno says to me when he silently opens the bedroom door and sees me standing, in front of the closet door, Raggedy Ann tightly clenched in my left fist. I do not speak for fear of waking my sister, I nod in affirmation. He takes my right hand and leads me down the hall, thru the darkened kitchen and in to the living room.
What had started, as hugging, cuddling, and light skin massages bordering on inappropriate exploration, had quickly turned to something far more sinister and taboo. He was very skilled at gaining my trust, but then again, I was only 5 or 6 and needed to be loved and cared for. He did that. He also violated me in ways that I cannot even begin to describe because words seem so inadequate.
At first, cuddling was fun, and it felt good to be held
so close, to feel warm and safe, and to feel loved. Even when my panties were wet, I
remember feeling confused, a twinge in my gut felt weird, but that's where my crippling anxiety lives too, and this man was
telling me it was OK, it felt good, that this is exactly what was supposed to
be happening, and that this is what I should be feeling. He introduced a white
Wahl vibrator with red removable attachments early in the ‘grooming’ phase of
our cuddling. I will not lie, if he wanted me to feel something, I definitely
did. I did like it. I was confused by it. I didn’t know why it had to be a
secret if it felt good and was supposed to happen. Uncle Bruno said that if I told
anyone, ever, he would kill my dad, then my sister, then my mom and grand
parents, and anyone else I told. He would shoot them. He told me he would shoot
my dad on a hunting trip and no one would believe it was not an accident. I
believed him. I also felt deep shame and humiliation because I felt wrong. Something deep inside me, maybe it was the anxiety, or my intuition, but something in me said this was wrong and it was all my fault because I was wrong somehow.
The vibrator served to remind me that my mother had taught me a very useful skill - dissociation, but it also served to prepare my body for him, for what was still to come. The photo attached to this post is the photo of the vibrator I remember him using on and inside me. He used it to stretch my vagina. When the vibrator was introduced for cuddling, I learned to bite down, hard, on the sofa cushion under Uncle Bruno’s arm if I was in front of him; or I’d bite down on Raggedy Ann’s hair – fun fact, her hair tastes exactly like the sofa in my memories: acrid, with a chemical after taste, and a rough yet smooth prickly texture. The act of biting the sofa or Raggedy Ann’s hair transports me to my steel vault.
I’m safe in my vault. I’m alone. I’m always alone. Dad told me to protect and take care of my sister. I know he would be proud of me. I take good care of her. Nobody hurts her. I'm good for Uncle Bruno, he says I'm a good girl and it makes me happy, but i don't think my sister would like to be a good girl. I’m good for my Aunt too. I listen and do what I’m told, even when I don’t want to. Why are you taking so long daddy? Why did you leave us here? Where is maman? Why can’t we go home? I’m scared here but I don’t want you to die so I can’t tell you the secret. If I am a good girl, why does it always hurt daddy? It hurts because he doesn’t use the vibrator anymore. Sometimes when I go to the bathroom, there’s blood on the toilet paper. Why does he make me kiss him where he has hair until until stuff comes out? What is that stuff? It’s not pee daddy.
After living without my parents for almost 2 years, I entered the kitchen one morning only to find my dad sitting at the table, coffee in hand, big smile on his face: something about his demeanor told me he wasn't leaving anytime soon. I ran to him, so happy to see him. He had arrived late the night before and said he had someone he’d like us to meet. After my sister and I were dressed, we followed dad outside and up the stairs to his parents’ apartment.
It was the frog-eyed woman! I remembered her, vaguely. I do not remember thinking much of her or caring much that she was there. I don't think I understood that she would play a very big part in my life. Little did I know, she was to be my new tormentor. My grandparents did not seem too impressed by her. I remember my grandfather looking rather disgusted every time he looked at her. Smart man, my grandfather. Maeve was never able to fool him, my grandmother, or Anna for that matter. She sat on my grandmother’s chesterfield batting her lashes like a schoolgirl at both men. To be honest, I did not notice back then, but it's a vivid memory and when I revisit it, I notice Maeve now, as a kid, I did not care; my daddy was here to take me home, finally.
My dad had finalized his divorce to my mother, sold the communal property, after completing 25 years of service with The Force, and could finally retire with his C.I. No2 and live happily ever after. As a temporary measure, we lived in a one-bedroom apartment with Jack and Maeve for a few weeks. It was an apartment in one of his properties, the one with the garage that housed all my mother's belongings - in case she came to her senses and realized my dad was not the mistake she thought he was.
Jack had purchased a convenience store in town and was waiting for the sale to close so he could get the keys and we could move to our final destination. I did not hate living in the apartment. It was small, and I remember it was incredibly clean and sun filled all the rooms, there was a park across the street, and my aunt did not live far away. Maeve loved crochet shawls and had several in her wardrobe. My sister and I would pretend to be just like her, wearing the shawls on our heads like hair to mimic the dark colour, length, and thickness of her tresses. We could spend an entire afternoon dancing and singing on the front lawn of the apartment building, one of 4 buildings Jack owned at the time. The past 2 years were finally over and I was ecstatic the day we finally moved out of the apartment.
Just started following my story and want to read from the beginning? Start with Family followed by The Early Years: 1974-1979.
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