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Author's infos Gender: Male Age: Secret Location: Detroit |
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| Introduction: An interview with sexually abused siblings. | ||
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Damaged When Examined by Emerson Laken-Palmer The picture of the woman, walking away in the mist, had a cleansing effect on my mind as I stood before the gallery window and peered at it. I had a grimy story to write and I was using the image of the woman to try and clear my mind of the image of the two kids from my memory. I encountered the two of them at a family shelter as I was doing research for a story. They were a pitiful pair whose appearance just tugged at the strings of my heart as I took a seat across from the two of them. She was blonde and pretty and freckled and wholesome-looking in her white blouse and blue-checked jumper. She was chewing bubblegum as girls love to do. He was just about her freckled image but in a boyish way as he sat beside her wearing a white t and blue shorts with canvas shoes. I could see that both his knees were skinned but one more so than the other. “Hi,” I smiled and said to them and they both smiled in return and nodded their hi’s back at me. “My name is Emerson,” I told them, “and I write stories.” “I love stories,” the girl spoke up. “That’s great,” I told her as she smiled proudly now. “I’m here to hear a story from the both of you.” “A story?” The boy asked. “Yes. About why you’re here at the shelter.” “You want to hear about our Uncle Joe, don’t you?” she asked seriously now. “Yes,” I told her. “Is he the reason why you’re here?” She nodded. “It’s because he did things with the two of us that the police said were not nice.” “Aw,” I told her. “That’s very sad to hear, honey. You’re supposed to be able to trust your uncle, aren’t you? Is there something wrong with him?” “Well...” she hesitated, “he’s a little sick inside his head... they say, because he liked to touch us in a different way.” “Different way?” “Yeah,” she said, “in a dirty way.” “How so?” I pressed. “Well... mom and dad touch us in a nice way. You know... hugs and stuff. But Uncle Joe touched us in a dirty way.” The boy chimed in now. “Yeah. Mom and dad nice and Uncle Joe dirty.” I wasn’t sure how to proceed with asking them these questions. They both seemed so nice and so wholesome as they sat there and looked at me so trustingly. I wondered if this was they same way they looked at their uncle when he made them do his sick, twisted bidding. “What kinds of things did your uncle do with you?” I pressed on and asked. “Well,” he began, shuffling in his chair, “sometimes he was nice and took us for ice cream and stuff. He used to laugh when I got ice cream on my chin and he told me that he liked to see me with cream on my chin like that. He wanted to lick it off for me but I didn’t like that idea at all.” “He was always laughing about cream and creamy faces,” she said now, “and he told me that he had a lot of cream for me. He was always laughing and thinking that odd, dirty things were funny.” “Then he would start putting his hands on us,” the boy told me. “All over us.” “He liked to put his hands between our legs best,” she announced, “and feel us there when nobody else was looking.” “He did?” “Yes. He told us that it was okay because he didn’t think of us as being too young. He said that, if he didn’t think it was bad, it wasn’t really bad and we should enjoy it because he did.” “What happened next?” I enquired. “Then,” the boy spoke now, “he would want us to touch him between his legs where his... his cock was real hard and stiff.” “He had a big penis?” “Oh no,” she explained. “In fact it was kind of on the small side but Uncle Joe told us that it was the perfect size for the kind of people who turned him on.” “People like you?” I asked her and she looked down at the drooping flip-flops on her feet and sadly nodded her head. Now the boy spoke up. “I wish I could have stopped him from touching her but what could I do? Uncle Joe always told us that people who don’t agree with him and people who think he is wrong are all fucktards and don’t know what they are talking about. Uncle Joe told us that only HE is right and that he is right all of the time. He told us not to listen to other people because they are all asswipes.” “Then what?” I cautiously asked. “Then,” she said, “he would take us to some place where nobody would see and he would take out his... his thing... his penis and he would tell me to hold it for him as he dug his hand down into my pants where he could touch my... my pussy.” I felt revulsion at what this sweet girl was telling me. I could hardly find words to speak but she kept talking... “Then he told me that he was going to show me how to kiss like he liked it and he would kiss me with his tongue going into my mouth and licking. He had his finger up inside me now and had me holding his thing and working my hand up and down it as he licked inside my open mouth with his bad breath.” “Kids,” I told them, “I don’t think that I want to hear any more...” The boy interrupted now. “That’s when he would pull me over and push my head down to his lap and he wanted me to put the head of his cock into my mouth.” “Please, kids,” I told them. “I don’t want to hear any more.” “He started to kiss me harder now,” she said, as if the memories had her in some kind of a trance, “and he was moaning and sucking on my mouth hard and pushing his finger way up in my pussy.” “That’s when his stuff would spurt in my mouth,” the boy said now, “and it was thick and tasted awful.” “Yes, it DID!” she exclaimed. “How would YOU know, honey, if he spurted his stuff in his nephew’s mouth?” I asked, nodding to the boy. “Because then he would make us kneel together, with our faces over his dick, and kiss each other,” she told me, “and his mouth was full of our uncle’s thick stuff and strong with nasty Uncle Joe’s dirty flavor. He made us kiss, that nasty way, until it was all gone and Uncle Joe told us not to waste any.” “Okay, you two,” I told them, holding my hand up. “I have enough information here to write a story about your uncle Joe and how he took away your innocence.” “If you see him,” she said as I got up from the chair, “tell him that I hope he rots in that jail.” This was strong talk coming from a girl who must have been all of thirteen. “I will,” I assured her and then I turned and left the room, and their sad tale of sexual abuse, behind me. Now I wish that I had interviewed that woman in the picture and not those two ruined kids. If there’s any justice in this world, I tell myself, their Uncle Joe will get what’s coming to him. |
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