Forever Changed: A Story of Childhood Sexual Abuse (Flash Fiction)
Child sexual abuse is perhaps the worst offense a human being can commit.
Given that strong statement, it is incomprehensible for mentally healthy people to believe that child sexual abuse is prevalent in society, and it has always been so.
Some people feel that pedophiles are more common today than in the past.
The truth is people did not talk about child sexual abuse, but that does not mean that it did not happen just as much.
When I was a child, growing up in the Deep South, we all knew what was meant when someone would talk about that "Creepy Uncle."
I'll bet it was the same in your community as well - just think back for a moment.
Forever Changed is a short story I wrote a long time ago. It tells the story of a young woman's experience with her mother's "Creepy Boyfriend," and how the experience permanantly impacted her outlook on life.
It probably qualifies as flash fiction more so than a short story, because the entire work can be read in less than five minutes. But, whatever its category, I hope you appreciate it.
Butch walked in the door that afternoon, tired and dirty from toiling with tar in the scorching Florida sun.
The ripe odor of sweat and dirt immediately illuminated the room as he dragged his body across the concrete floor of the living room and staggered into the kitchen.
There was a brief pause, and then I heard the familiar pop of the pull tap on an icy cold beer.
The chilly ale swirled down the long, heavily veined black neck in loud, thirsty gulps and then he reached into the fridge and pulled out the remainder of the aluminum six-pack.
He shuffled back in to the living room, six pack in tow, and he collapsed onto the couch in a dirty, crumbled heap - there he lay, nursing his six-pack until loud snores began to emanate from his exhausted body.
Somewhere between the deep black of night and the early morning twilight, I felt hands roaming over my torso, rousing me from sleep.
I awoke at first confused, and then my memory began to prevail. I felt a slick, slimy chill deep in my gut that emanated through the rest of my body as hands moved farther down my torso.
His breath was hot and wreaking of stale beer, and his words fell on my face in a putrid shroud when he hissed at me, “come on girl, stop fighting me.”
My 9-year-old body froze in fear and disgust as I succumbed to his monstrous desires, but the iced state that had taken a hold of my body provided a welcomed measure of security in numbness.
The hot droplets of water hit my body and washed away some of the impact of the assault. However, after my twilight shower was finished, the creeping cold eventually crept back into my soul and accompanied me throughout my day.
My teachers droned on about place values, President Carter, cell parts, and semicolons, but my mind was too busy wrestling with the question of why I let my mother’s boyfriend do disgusting things to me.
I did not like it as he said I would, I knew that it was wrong, and I already knew that I was supposed to tell on him - but I was sickened and embarrassed at even the idea of telling someone.
Besides, I had been through this before with my step-grandfather when I was younger, so I should already know how to deal with the situation - I just needed to buck-up and stop being such a crybaby.
My ordeal continued, sometimes I outwitted him and I escaped unscathed - other times he won and I felt a new layer of disgust with myself.
One day I came home to find that Butch was no more.
Other boyfriends would follow, but none of them came anywhere near me because I had morphed into an uncontrollable brat with a smart mouth, a serious attitude problem, and a seething glare for society at large.