TW: Incestuous rape
I don’t really have the words to describe this feeling. Is it disgust? Perhaps shame? It’s an unease at the top of my belly, a constriction in my throat. I feel queasy and sick. I keep a bucket beside me in case I wretch. I feel dirty, so unclean. I have scrubbed my skin really hard and tried to wash away the shame with scalding hot water. My skin stings all over…it seems the shame burns even brighter now. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I hate what stares back at me. I hate that person and worse, I hate that I can’t hate who did that to her, to us.
I was transported back to a time in centuries past. I laid flat on the marble slab in what I can only describe as an Ottoman Haman. I had a body scrub for my legs. I was trying to get them soft and beautiful. I worked the scrub in gently but firmly. It was soothing and relaxing. I was so lost in my own world, basking in the moment, that I did not realize I was no longer alone. Somehow, he had joined me. He was laying next to me and expecting me to scrub him too. I couldn’t be disrespectful, I couldn’t be rude so I obliged. He told me how he was sorry I had to care for him being so young. He told me life had been unfair to him and he wished things could have been different for me. He poured his heart out but all I wondered was whether or not he noticed my naked form and if he did, why he thought this was acceptable. But I could not be rude, I could not question his actions. I had to bow my head in obeisance and do as I was asked.
It was not lost on me that his member was starting to get excited by the contact and probably my nakedness. I did my best to ignore it; the body will react the way the body will. I scrubbed his legs, trying carefully not to come in contact with the rising member. He must have noticed my hesitation and tried to coax my hands along his now erect part. I pulled away instantly. He urged me not to shy away and pleaded with me. My mother had ignored him for many, many years and he was not even sure he could be a man anymore. My mother had denied him her touch, so he needed me to have mercy on his poor soul and give him the gift of his manhood back. As if I stole it in the first place. This was not right, I knew that in my heart but I could say nothing, do nothing. I regarded his member and thought it looked shriveled up and old like the person it was attached to; so sad looking, a shadow of what may have been great in the past. I felt powerless and I just laid there as he slid into me. It helped that there was moisture from the bath we had been taking; at least it didn’t hurt. Not physically.
I was worried that my body would betray me. After all, I too had been deprived of love and intimacy for a long time. I could relate, so I feared my body would welcome his touch. I didn’t hate him, so would my body feel something? No. I felt nothing. I was numb physically and emotionally. It was like flipping the pages of an empty book; it sparked no kind of emotions. Then suddenly, we became a spectacle, under the watchful gaze of passersby. Visible, yet unseen. It was as though everyone who looked upon us merely looked through me. People had the nerve to ask for directions, ask for information but not a single soul pointed out the forbidden intertwining. Everyone merely continued on their merry way after getting what they needed from me. No one raised a cry for help. I supposed I couldn’t blame them. After all, I also carried on conversation as if all was normal. If I did not reach out for help, how would they know I did not want to be in this position?
I tried to drown out his cries of pleasure and his moans of thank you. He was thanking me for helping him feel something again but all I wanted was for it to be over. People continued to pass by. I asked if we could change positions, he had laid down behind me long enough. I asked if I could be on top. Maybe I could hide his face from the world so my shame would not be on such great display. Maybe I could suffocate him while he reached ecstasy at the expense of my soul and dignity. Maybe this could all end faster. I pushed his head down so the world could not see him. A small crowd began to gather. They were still watching. An old lady began to laugh and walk away. My eyes followed her through cobblestone alleys until she found my mother. She asked my mother about me. ‘No’ I had thought to myself. My mother bragged about how I was such a good child.
“You must not know then,” the lady said to her.
“Know what?”
“That she lays with your husband, her father, a shameful spectacle for the whole town to see.”
I felt my mother’s pain and shame. I wished so desperately that she would come to free me from this prison, so we could run away and leave this horrid town and family for good. She never came. She ran away leaving me behind. I guess the heartbreak was too much. My father found completion and I was finally released. I like to think I died that night.
Every day, I have tried to burn my skin off, scrubbed hard to rid myself of that horrible memory. Every day, I am reminded of that terrible time. Every day, I feel that unease in my stomach, the constriction in my throat, the nausea that threatens to take over me. What is it I wonder again? Disgust perhaps? Or an abomination growing deep within me?
Chocolate Flavoured Girl 