deepundergroundpoetry.com
Category: Sexual Assualt ( Tagetes Erecta )
You'd think that my first memory would be something like baking with my 'mother' or reading some childish story on my 'fathers' lap but instead my first memory is of something slightly more darker, more awkward and selfish, something I wish I didn't remember but how could I forget?
I was five. He was thirty-two. There was something off in the way he looked at me, the way he smiled awkwardly because I knew he couldn't truely smile, really he couldn't, he had what doctors called 'Antisocial Personality Disorder'. A disorder that proved too strong over his morals, a disorder I am prone to have, or at least seem to have when something horrible happens to me; or maybe it's because bad things have always happened to me so therefore when bad things do happen to me I don't acknowledge it anymore, I don't notice, I simply don't care.
You're probably thinking 'doesn't this misbegotten little girl know better then to follow dark strangers into dark rooms through dark halls and dark doors?'.
Well, no, no one ever told me to stay away from dark alleys, dark men, dark rooms, dark doors, or dark eyes and I'm sure they could care less.
How cold the room felt when I was alone with him in it, how the curtains of the one small window, too high for me to reach, were closed tightly after the door was shut slowly as to make sure no one would hear, almost as if he had a secret to tell me and he didn't want anyone else knowing that he was telling me. His name was Charles and I was fond of calling him Charlie most of the time, which didn't seem to bother him all that much because he called me Amelia, even though I didn't like being called by that name.
"You should know that I'm not only your daddy's friend, I'm also your friend too." His voice was almost blank with a slight tone of desperation, the kind that sent chills up my spine.
"Oh, well that's weird because no one really likes me." I have always been the child of morbid and dark thoughts, even at such a young age.
He looked down at my little fists, which fidgeted and flicked against my dress, and smiled almost delighted to know that I would gladly sock him in the mouth if need be. My attire was still all the 'erotic gothic' it is now, then. I wore a black dress, that had a white frilled collar to go with the white cuff links which itched at my wrists, white stockings, scuffed black dress shoes, my hair was up in a loose ponytail that was being held by a long black ribbon, I never went anywhere without it, my bangs still reached my eyelashes so when I looked up at him he smiled; maybe because the green of my eyes dimly shone through my dark brown hair.
Although no one ever told me to not go into closed mens bathrooms with openly odd men, I knew that something was very distraught about Charles. Not only did I find his gaze almost frightening, but the fact that he led me in here by saying:
"I have a very, very important secret I want to share with you."
So what was the secret, what so important that he had to interrupt the watching of my 'father' and bring me to the bathroom to tell me? What was the point of locking that door or shutting the curtains, was he going to tell me a scary story? One of heartbreak and anger? One of confusion and unwanted feelings?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Please don't.
I remember the feeling of his, at first, soft touch upon the top of my head which soon traveled, ran, forced it's way down to the skin on my neck though I pulled away slightly.
"What's the secret?" My voice filling with a somewhat stern tone though making sure to keep a quiet voice because no one was supposed to know we were in a room alone together.
He smiled suddenly and tilted my chin upwards so I had to look at him, his thumb tracing my bottom lip so my mouth parted where he took this moment to lean down and slide an unlawful tongue into my mouth; I became frozen with fear for a moment, not knowing what to do because no one ever told me what to do in this situation before, I mean no one ever told me to 'stay away from strangers' or the 'bad touch' and 'good touch' lessons before; though really what was a 'good touch' to a five year old girl who had Manic Depression and didn't know right from wrong?
My feet took a few steps back when I felt the slimy leech of a tongue lick the roof of my mouth and play with my own tongue though I wasn't of age to play back, not in this game, not with this spider, not in this web, not in this cage, not with this monster.
In a split moment.
In a single second.
In a swift motion.
In a vile attack.
I was no longer in control,
not that I was in the first place.
I found myself on the floor,
though I don't remember the exact movement he did to put me there.
I found myself drowning in tears,
though I don't remember the precise sense of fear that I had.
Stockings, ripped and removed. Underwear, pulled and tugged. Face, red and hot. Tears, pouring and pouring. I don't remember seeing the moment through my eyes, I remember seeing it from the right side of me so his back was to me and I saw him holding my mouth shut so tight I couldn't breath. Though the feeling overwhelmed me and brought me back into my own body so I had to experience the feeling of his two fingers slowly exploring me, gently rubbing and touching me until I kicked him in the shoulder; alas, my ankles displayed, that only made things worse and so he pressed with all his might against me, so now when he ran his fingertips down me it hurt and exploded with tears and screaming.
"You're so pretty and perfect." He said, most people would find these words sentimental, now I hate being called 'pretty' or 'perfect' because I know I'm not and just the fact that he thought I was makes me want to be sick.
I don't remember for how long he did this but what I do remember is that he didn't force his fingers inside of me, I know now that he only did this because he wated to break my innocence with his own hard rod instead. Luckily for me when he adjusted his position, to prepare himself for the finale of fucking little me, I found my escape by kicking him in the face, running while pulling my underwear and whatever reminents of my stockings up, unlocking the door and dashing down the hall screaming for Thomas.
When I told Thomas what happened I only remember that his eyes got wide in disbelief until he saw my stocking ripped and the fact that my ribbon had fallen out then his eyes narrowed. I do not remember what happened after that; I just know that Charles never layed a hand on me again, nor did he try to.
Alas, in my dismal gloom,
hidden away in my room.
This was only the first,
and surely not the worst.
When a sane girl goes to an asylum for the mad she is treated with respect and dignity. When a mad girl goes to an asylum for the mad she is treated with discourtesy and insolence.
Let me explain.
One day, after falling into my depression once more, I decided to be a raging lunatic.
One: I smashed the phone to pieces.
Two: I yelled at Thomas for trying to help me.
Three: I broke 'father's' music box that his sister gave to him before she died.
Four: I found 'father's' gun.
Five: I sat on his bed, put the barrel to my chest and pulled the trigger.
Unfortunatly I missed my target and shot my lung so it collapsed or punctured, doesn't matter really which one it's just the fact that when I got to the hospital they fixed me up, drugged me up, signed some paperwork my 'mother' didn't care about, I woke up in the local 'we want to help you because you're fucking insane for tryin to kill yourself' mental institution. Where was everyone there mistreated, I had to take pills that did nothing for any of my problems, probably only made them worse, they wouldn't let me write unless someone was watching over my shoulder, I became a lab rat for electroshock 'this isn't going to hurt a bit but were lying, it really will' therapy, strip searched daily because I was a 'very dangerous patient', I couldn't talk to Thomas or my 'parents', and this is also the place where I was molested for the second time.
I was sixteen. He was twenty-seven. He stared at me daily, like Charles had done, and so I knew to stay away from him because though his brown eyes were captivating I knew better then to stare for too long. He called me names like 'toots' or 'sweetie', sometimes even the occasional 'honey' would do the trick to make me want to stab with a plastic spoon, but someone was always watching me, like I'd stab myself with a spoon to death.
Maybe.
Not yet.
He hated me so why would he do such a thing as intrude in my room one fateful night, as I was awake because my Manic Depression keeps me up at night, non stop thinking, over active brain power put to waste. His brown hair was short but long enough to look shaggy in way, his mouth was wide and the jaw lined with brittle stubble was strong, though he was thoroughly unattractive to me, saying as I was already having affiliations with Thomas by this time; which made it all the more sad when they wouldn't let me talk to him.
"Thought you were the prettiest one here." When he chuckled at the end of it, the closing of the door followed so I sat up, narrowing my forever hating eyes at him.
"Isn't that a delightfully ignorant phrase. I don't care what you think." I snipped the words with laces of rat posioning so maybe he got the picture that I wasn't interested in the likes of him.
"Doc said you were a fiesty one and I didn't believe him 'til I handled you myself, you a' virg'?" The way he said 'handled you myself' made it sound as if he had already had his way with me, which he hadn't unless I had been severly fucking drugged.
The question was crude but I thought that if I answered truthfully, which would be 'no', he'd be less interested, saying as most men want 'tightly bound' girls. I really should learn not to tell the truth anymore, only because when I do tell the truth it turns around and hits me in the face. He smiled when I shook my head to the side then to the other side in a 'no' formation, wanting and almost praying that he would just go away or give me some sleeping pills so if he did do anything I wouldn't be awake for it.
I fought. Trust me, I did. Though when push comes to shove I was weak due to malnurishment and abuse from other inmates, so I was down on my knees in ten seconds flat. His scrubs untied, my eyes grew wide.
Oh dear no,
not that, anything but.
Too late.
I'd like to leave out the details, but what would a good horror story be without details?
His hand gripped the back of my hair and the other held my wrists together so I couldn't push him away but he must've forgotten that I have teeth. I wasn't going to sit around and let him take advantage of my mouth like that, I wouldn't stand for it, so I bit him, though he must have felt it coming and quickly pulled out; still content with the fact that my teeth scraped against his sensitive flesh I didn't even realize he punched me until I was on my back holding my now bloody nose. His hands, they grabbed my ankles and pulled me into him with one strong pull. I was too stunned from the blow to the face to realize that neither my pants ot underwear were there anymore, I was too flushed to notice that his fingers were inside, I was too unaware to focus on the fact he was about to shove his flesh into me.
Then suddenly, I saw an angel.
Dr. H. must've heard the thud I created when I fell back, saying as it was awfully silent in that place at nighttime. I hardly remember what he said or what happened to the man who was trying to fornicate with me, I hardly remember Dr. H. picking me up and laying me on the bed, tucking me in like father would his daughter, I do remember that he apologized for the mans actions and promised it would never happen again.
He kept that promise.
Then my fued was over,
no more running for cover.
My stockings are secure,
I'm no longer impure.
[b]This is a document. A recording. A written memory. I will be writting a lot of these, different categories of course. Thank you for reading.
[b][ END TRANSMISSION ][b]
I was five. He was thirty-two. There was something off in the way he looked at me, the way he smiled awkwardly because I knew he couldn't truely smile, really he couldn't, he had what doctors called 'Antisocial Personality Disorder'. A disorder that proved too strong over his morals, a disorder I am prone to have, or at least seem to have when something horrible happens to me; or maybe it's because bad things have always happened to me so therefore when bad things do happen to me I don't acknowledge it anymore, I don't notice, I simply don't care.
You're probably thinking 'doesn't this misbegotten little girl know better then to follow dark strangers into dark rooms through dark halls and dark doors?'.
Well, no, no one ever told me to stay away from dark alleys, dark men, dark rooms, dark doors, or dark eyes and I'm sure they could care less.
How cold the room felt when I was alone with him in it, how the curtains of the one small window, too high for me to reach, were closed tightly after the door was shut slowly as to make sure no one would hear, almost as if he had a secret to tell me and he didn't want anyone else knowing that he was telling me. His name was Charles and I was fond of calling him Charlie most of the time, which didn't seem to bother him all that much because he called me Amelia, even though I didn't like being called by that name.
"You should know that I'm not only your daddy's friend, I'm also your friend too." His voice was almost blank with a slight tone of desperation, the kind that sent chills up my spine.
"Oh, well that's weird because no one really likes me." I have always been the child of morbid and dark thoughts, even at such a young age.
He looked down at my little fists, which fidgeted and flicked against my dress, and smiled almost delighted to know that I would gladly sock him in the mouth if need be. My attire was still all the 'erotic gothic' it is now, then. I wore a black dress, that had a white frilled collar to go with the white cuff links which itched at my wrists, white stockings, scuffed black dress shoes, my hair was up in a loose ponytail that was being held by a long black ribbon, I never went anywhere without it, my bangs still reached my eyelashes so when I looked up at him he smiled; maybe because the green of my eyes dimly shone through my dark brown hair.
Although no one ever told me to not go into closed mens bathrooms with openly odd men, I knew that something was very distraught about Charles. Not only did I find his gaze almost frightening, but the fact that he led me in here by saying:
"I have a very, very important secret I want to share with you."
So what was the secret, what so important that he had to interrupt the watching of my 'father' and bring me to the bathroom to tell me? What was the point of locking that door or shutting the curtains, was he going to tell me a scary story? One of heartbreak and anger? One of confusion and unwanted feelings?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Please don't.
I remember the feeling of his, at first, soft touch upon the top of my head which soon traveled, ran, forced it's way down to the skin on my neck though I pulled away slightly.
"What's the secret?" My voice filling with a somewhat stern tone though making sure to keep a quiet voice because no one was supposed to know we were in a room alone together.
He smiled suddenly and tilted my chin upwards so I had to look at him, his thumb tracing my bottom lip so my mouth parted where he took this moment to lean down and slide an unlawful tongue into my mouth; I became frozen with fear for a moment, not knowing what to do because no one ever told me what to do in this situation before, I mean no one ever told me to 'stay away from strangers' or the 'bad touch' and 'good touch' lessons before; though really what was a 'good touch' to a five year old girl who had Manic Depression and didn't know right from wrong?
My feet took a few steps back when I felt the slimy leech of a tongue lick the roof of my mouth and play with my own tongue though I wasn't of age to play back, not in this game, not with this spider, not in this web, not in this cage, not with this monster.
In a split moment.
In a single second.
In a swift motion.
In a vile attack.
I was no longer in control,
not that I was in the first place.
I found myself on the floor,
though I don't remember the exact movement he did to put me there.
I found myself drowning in tears,
though I don't remember the precise sense of fear that I had.
Stockings, ripped and removed. Underwear, pulled and tugged. Face, red and hot. Tears, pouring and pouring. I don't remember seeing the moment through my eyes, I remember seeing it from the right side of me so his back was to me and I saw him holding my mouth shut so tight I couldn't breath. Though the feeling overwhelmed me and brought me back into my own body so I had to experience the feeling of his two fingers slowly exploring me, gently rubbing and touching me until I kicked him in the shoulder; alas, my ankles displayed, that only made things worse and so he pressed with all his might against me, so now when he ran his fingertips down me it hurt and exploded with tears and screaming.
"You're so pretty and perfect." He said, most people would find these words sentimental, now I hate being called 'pretty' or 'perfect' because I know I'm not and just the fact that he thought I was makes me want to be sick.
I don't remember for how long he did this but what I do remember is that he didn't force his fingers inside of me, I know now that he only did this because he wated to break my innocence with his own hard rod instead. Luckily for me when he adjusted his position, to prepare himself for the finale of fucking little me, I found my escape by kicking him in the face, running while pulling my underwear and whatever reminents of my stockings up, unlocking the door and dashing down the hall screaming for Thomas.
When I told Thomas what happened I only remember that his eyes got wide in disbelief until he saw my stocking ripped and the fact that my ribbon had fallen out then his eyes narrowed. I do not remember what happened after that; I just know that Charles never layed a hand on me again, nor did he try to.
Alas, in my dismal gloom,
hidden away in my room.
This was only the first,
and surely not the worst.
When a sane girl goes to an asylum for the mad she is treated with respect and dignity. When a mad girl goes to an asylum for the mad she is treated with discourtesy and insolence.
Let me explain.
One day, after falling into my depression once more, I decided to be a raging lunatic.
One: I smashed the phone to pieces.
Two: I yelled at Thomas for trying to help me.
Three: I broke 'father's' music box that his sister gave to him before she died.
Four: I found 'father's' gun.
Five: I sat on his bed, put the barrel to my chest and pulled the trigger.
Unfortunatly I missed my target and shot my lung so it collapsed or punctured, doesn't matter really which one it's just the fact that when I got to the hospital they fixed me up, drugged me up, signed some paperwork my 'mother' didn't care about, I woke up in the local 'we want to help you because you're fucking insane for tryin to kill yourself' mental institution. Where was everyone there mistreated, I had to take pills that did nothing for any of my problems, probably only made them worse, they wouldn't let me write unless someone was watching over my shoulder, I became a lab rat for electroshock 'this isn't going to hurt a bit but were lying, it really will' therapy, strip searched daily because I was a 'very dangerous patient', I couldn't talk to Thomas or my 'parents', and this is also the place where I was molested for the second time.
I was sixteen. He was twenty-seven. He stared at me daily, like Charles had done, and so I knew to stay away from him because though his brown eyes were captivating I knew better then to stare for too long. He called me names like 'toots' or 'sweetie', sometimes even the occasional 'honey' would do the trick to make me want to stab with a plastic spoon, but someone was always watching me, like I'd stab myself with a spoon to death.
Maybe.
Not yet.
He hated me so why would he do such a thing as intrude in my room one fateful night, as I was awake because my Manic Depression keeps me up at night, non stop thinking, over active brain power put to waste. His brown hair was short but long enough to look shaggy in way, his mouth was wide and the jaw lined with brittle stubble was strong, though he was thoroughly unattractive to me, saying as I was already having affiliations with Thomas by this time; which made it all the more sad when they wouldn't let me talk to him.
"Thought you were the prettiest one here." When he chuckled at the end of it, the closing of the door followed so I sat up, narrowing my forever hating eyes at him.
"Isn't that a delightfully ignorant phrase. I don't care what you think." I snipped the words with laces of rat posioning so maybe he got the picture that I wasn't interested in the likes of him.
"Doc said you were a fiesty one and I didn't believe him 'til I handled you myself, you a' virg'?" The way he said 'handled you myself' made it sound as if he had already had his way with me, which he hadn't unless I had been severly fucking drugged.
The question was crude but I thought that if I answered truthfully, which would be 'no', he'd be less interested, saying as most men want 'tightly bound' girls. I really should learn not to tell the truth anymore, only because when I do tell the truth it turns around and hits me in the face. He smiled when I shook my head to the side then to the other side in a 'no' formation, wanting and almost praying that he would just go away or give me some sleeping pills so if he did do anything I wouldn't be awake for it.
I fought. Trust me, I did. Though when push comes to shove I was weak due to malnurishment and abuse from other inmates, so I was down on my knees in ten seconds flat. His scrubs untied, my eyes grew wide.
Oh dear no,
not that, anything but.
Too late.
I'd like to leave out the details, but what would a good horror story be without details?
His hand gripped the back of my hair and the other held my wrists together so I couldn't push him away but he must've forgotten that I have teeth. I wasn't going to sit around and let him take advantage of my mouth like that, I wouldn't stand for it, so I bit him, though he must have felt it coming and quickly pulled out; still content with the fact that my teeth scraped against his sensitive flesh I didn't even realize he punched me until I was on my back holding my now bloody nose. His hands, they grabbed my ankles and pulled me into him with one strong pull. I was too stunned from the blow to the face to realize that neither my pants ot underwear were there anymore, I was too flushed to notice that his fingers were inside, I was too unaware to focus on the fact he was about to shove his flesh into me.
Then suddenly, I saw an angel.
Dr. H. must've heard the thud I created when I fell back, saying as it was awfully silent in that place at nighttime. I hardly remember what he said or what happened to the man who was trying to fornicate with me, I hardly remember Dr. H. picking me up and laying me on the bed, tucking me in like father would his daughter, I do remember that he apologized for the mans actions and promised it would never happen again.
He kept that promise.
Then my fued was over,
no more running for cover.
My stockings are secure,
I'm no longer impure.
[b]This is a document. A recording. A written memory. I will be writting a lot of these, different categories of course. Thank you for reading.
[b][ END TRANSMISSION ][b]
Published 12th Sep 2011
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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12th Sep 2011 6:05am
That'd made me cry, I am so sorry that happen to you. That pretty much all I can say.
12th Sep 2011 1:08pm
12th Sep 2011 10:28pm
to write such a traumatic piece.
I hope you are recovering.
You have a family here.
I hope you are recovering.
You have a family here.
12th Sep 2011 11:08pm
I know nothing makes this "better." I hope you can find support here, in this. Your writing makes me feel like you are a flower growing between sidewalk stones; that you are strong only by sheer determination. Those flowers, though, when they get good soil and water, they grow and nothing can stop them. I wish the same for you.
3rd Nov 2011 9:30pm
what you have done here is a new kind of thing. it takes strength to do what you have done. i wouldn't be able to wright about stuff like that.
25th Oct 2013 7:00pm
I'd be willing to bet on the author of this being named Charlie. Remember time is cyclical, the future affects the past as coincidence.
