Will They Blame You?

It's not that hard to understand. A child of bare 7, all you do is run around on the terrace, play a little, call names and double up laughing at everything. You make friends with just about anyone. Of course, they have to let you pick the teams.

He isn't family yet. And he comes along, blows you away! The coin just disappeared! You pester him around and ask him questions no one else would bother with answering.

'Why is the sky so high?'

'Will a fly stick to my tongue like it does to a frog's?'

'Do you think our cat might be a ghost? Last night I saw her eyes glow in the dark.'

He has an answer for everything. And he smiles, holds you by the arm, as he tells you. Tells you of the frogs, the cat, the sky. Tells you of things that leave you spellbound, and quite often chuckling insanely.

'Did you know you can't lick your own elbow?' You try, and again. He's right! You are now a fan.

One evening, you're on the terrace. You and him. You'll never forgive them for leaving you behind that day. But they didn't know.

He lays you down, there's a story to be told. 'Of pixies and fairies! The Enchanted Wood!'

You are out of your mind! But wait, what is he doing now?

He begins by caressing your face, tracing back the curls. And now he's planting kisses. Affection? They get sloppier and they're all over you. You're uncomfortable, and you squirm. But he's a big man, and he's touching you wrong. He's running his hands over you, down there. His firm grip has you pinned down.

'Let me go!'

'Aw, come on now. You want a story? I'll tell you one, a really good one. Just stay still for a while.'

You're gripped by overpowering, stark terror. This man scares you. And he won't let you go. He's doing these things to you, and you know they're wrong, and painful, but he won't let you go! You find yourself going numb and you can't feel the tears that you shed. You're drained of all spirit and you hate that man. But he won't let you go.

Just then someone calls your name, you jolt back to comprehension. He flusters, panics. You manage to wriggle out of his hold, but not before feeling his glare burn your skin. You want to scram downstairs, and to never look back. But you're legs allow only a stagger. You will remember precisely, how many times you tripped that day, and the jaggedness of the stairs you lapsed on. Will they blame you?

You bring yourself to stop crying and obscure the affliction. You don't know what happened and you don't know whom to go to.

Dinner is served.