I don't know if I mentioned it in my previous posts, but there were three people who really broke my heart, in ways I would not wish on my worst enemy. The first was my dad, which comes as no surprise if you've been reading up to here. The second was my cousin. This is his story.
My mom has family in Newfoundland, and so every other year or so, we would go and visit them. We would sleep over at her mom and stepdad's house. We always spent at least 3 weeks there, to make it worth the trip, because it was kind of pricey for my mom, brother and I to go. (My dad never went, because he had an argument with my mom's brother, as I recall). My brother and I hung out with our cousins, T and S. T was a girl, older than I by a year, but younger in mental capacity because of childhood illness. S was a boy, my own age, maybe a few months younger, and was somehow very attached to me, and hyper-sexual.
On this particular visit, I was 9 (a big year for me, as I had just started my period in the months preceding). We went over to my Aunt's house to play with our cousins. I didn't really like playing with them, but they were the only kids we knew there, so that's where we went. We always played weird games, though. Weird for our age, I mean. And familial relations, of course. Stuff like spin the bottle and 7 minutes in heaven. (I'm assuming here that everyone knows what those games are, and can google if they don't, I suppose). I should mention here that S had a Swiss army knife that he had gotten as a gift, and loved to fool around with it, flipping it open and closed and such.
One day, S and I were in the basement of his house, though I can't remember where exactly his sister or my brother were, nor why we were there alone. I just remember someone telling me to go into the spare bedroom. I don't think it was S, I think it was T, from upstairs, maybe? So I went in the spare bedroom. Right behind me was S, and he closed and locked the door behind him. I asked him what was going on, but I don't know if he answered. If he did, I don't remember the words. He started kissing me all over my face, shoulders, and I kept backing away and trying to get him to knock it off. I still thought it was a bit of a joke, or even a game.
I backed up until the bed was behind my knees, and he shoved against my shoulders so I would fall onto it. I don't remember the exact sequence of events, but I know he managed to push my top up and move my training bra up as well, and he unzipped my pants and his. I must have gone numb somewhere in the middle of this, because I didn't move, just turned my head to the side and let it happen. He unzipped his own pants, and I felt him against my stomach. That's when I started to struggle, but it didn't last long, because I also felt the edge of a knife on my left side. With his other hand he held my hands above my head, but he didn't need to, and let go fairly quickly when he realized I wasn't going to struggle.
Then he raped me. I don't think I could describe the pain even now. It was such that, when his knife hand slipped and cut me, I didn't feel it. He left a visible scar, proof that he was there.
It must have only lasted about 10 minutes from beginning to end, but it felt like forever. Then, in the middle of it, his dad called downstairs to get us to come up for lunch. He got off me, adjusted his clothing and folded his knife back in his pocket, and looked at me one last time. I got the message. I wasn't going to say anything. Not then, anyway.
A few years later (yes, years) I told my mom. She asked me why I didn't fight and I told her about the knife. My hand to the bible, she stood up and walked away, and we haven't talked about it since.
I kept my scar on my stomach up until the time my kids came along, and gave me wonderful stretch marks. I can no longer see the scar, and so my kids healed me just a little bit, by removing that reminder.
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