Don't Cry Out (1)
“Don’t you even cry! I swear if you cry I will split you open, so don’t you cry!” These are words that would make most children cry on the spot. However, there are times when even a child knows, even the most innocent child can tell, it’s the truth. Why had I felt so certain? Why had I left the room? There are questions that should not need to be asked, but once asked, they are haunting. These were questions that would never be answered. “Please.” It was the only word, the magic word. “Please, I want to go. I want to go back to my room.” “Don’t you cry.” Words, words, words. They’re so simple, so easy to create. Words can hurt so deeply, yet mean so little. I was told not to. He said it clearly, quietly, in my ear. So close, so warm. The tears flowed, streaking my face, in a threatening way. He told me not to, but I could not will them away. I cursed my eyes for not obeying his will. “Stop! Please stop.” As soon as they were said, I wanted to take them back. I knew I would not get away. I knew I would not survive. I barely knew my name, but these things I knew. “How dare you? I told you not to cry! I told you what I would do!” He reached toward the floor. His hand on my throat was heavy and tight. The room seemed to grow darker. He was choking the life out of me. I slipped slowly into the dark, and welcomed it. Then, he sat up. He had found his prize. His grip loosened, and I realized I would have to endure more. Oh God. Please help me! Please make this end. I am sorry. I am so sorry. “Ahhhhh!” The scream seemed to die on my lips. Don’t cry out. He will kill you for sure then. He will make you bleed. A bottle. That‘s what it is. A bottle from the table. I saw it when he brought me to the room. It was standing on the table. When he pushed me, it fell on the floor. I had hit the table, in the smoky dark room. The sound of breaking glass was the companion to my shriek. That is when the bottle must have broken. “Please, don’t hurt me any more. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” “Then why are you still crying? I think you’re a liar! Lets see if I can make you tell the truth. Lets see if I can make you!” The blood was running out of me. I could feel the warm, moist fluid on my thighs. The pain, deep inside, made me cold. “Little Bitch! You fucking little Bitch! Don’t you dare!” What? What had I done? The tears were gone, drying like dead flowers. Flowers were cut at their best, and even long after they were dead they still had their beauty. Colors of yellow, red, even blue never seemed to fade from their faces. Would I look like them? I really couldn’t believe I would. They were beautiful, forever. I, however, was being painted with my own blood. I knew what rape was. There’s very little about this that’s hard to mistake, even when you are twelve. We came here for a vacation. It will be fun. That is what she said. Now my mother lay in the bed, down the hall, sleeping, and I lay here waiting for the pain to consume the nightmare. All I wanted was a soda from the machine in the hall. The water tasted funny. I took the change from the nightstand, and left the room. I saw him standing in the hall. He even smiled as I looked back to close the door. Nothing was different about him then, just another man in the shadows of all our lives. All I thought then was not to let the door slam and wake my brother and mother. Don’t slam the door. She told me it a million times. I remembered her telling me about the doors. Don’t let them slam had been a lesson I’d learned. I don’t remember her saying the stranger would kill me. I don’t remember that lesson at all, but I didn’t slam the door. Fifty cents was what the machine required. I looked at the change in my hand when he grabbed me from behind. I remember the sound of the money as it bounced on the carpet. A quiet little plink was the only sound, till the door to his room closed, cutting me off from my past. CRACK The slap brought me back. It brought me back here, to the room, to the smell. What was that smell? It must be the smell of dying. I started to drift. I started to leave and he brought me back to smell my own death. He brought me back to choke on the smell of my own blood. The whole room seemed out of shape. Nothing looked real. The colors were wrong and the shapes were bent. I could hear him, but I couldn’t understand. Was he telling me something? Was he telling me not to cry? I didn’t even know if I was crying. I touched my face, but could not feel my fingers. Are they wet? I was sure they were. That is why things are bent. That is why things are wrong. No. I am sleeping! None of this is real. Things are never quite right in nightmares. Puppies are monsters, and men are demons. Everything makes sense as they play out in your mind. Anything is possible in nightmares, even this. That’s what it is! I am asleep, I will wake up crying, and then it will be OK. “Bitch!” It seems so real. Dreams and nightmares always do though, before you wake. No one would actually cut inside you with a broken bottle! No one would! I hear crying. I wonder who’s crying? I should wake up and see who it is. Something must be wrong. I have to help! Maybe my brother is hurt! I have to open my eyes and help! My eyes are so heavy. I try and finally, they open. The nightmare is over. My eyes are open, now it is over. “Don’t even try it! Don’t even try! You stay where you are.” CRACK The pain is coming again. I can’t breathe! Oh my God! He’s in me! Oh God! He pushed into my swollen thighs. He pushed past the blood and seemed to like the pain he caused. I looked at him, and he smiled. His face was so normal. Green eyes stared back from a red, sweaty face, while thin brown hair clung to his temples. There were no fangs. There were no scales. He looked like a man. A normal looking demon trying to contaminate my soul! “It hurts. Please stop. It hurts.” “Just behave. I know you. I know you will behave.” Know me? How could you know me? You told me not to cry when you hurt me! You told me not to cry! How could you know me? Perhaps he knew what I would become. He planted the seed of evil in me, to grow, and flourish. Then he stopped. I opened my eyes to see him, but he had changed. He looked like the monster now. He stood over me, naked, bloody. My blood slowly dripped off him. I saw it on his face, like demonic war paint. He walked over to the window, and stretched his body like a snake. The dim light of the city makes the blood seem to glow. So much blood! “You’re much better than I thought. You feel so good. Are you good? Are you?” He turned and looked at me. There’s no God in his eyes. There’s no soul to save. Did he kill my soul? Did he cut it out with a bottle? Did he make me just like him? Am I good? “No.” It seemed to fall past my lips. It seemed to slither. I was full of him, and I couldn’t be good. Not any more. I was painted in blood, and full of hate. How could that much hate live in someone good? Laughing. I hear laughing. He took my laughter for his own, and corrupted the sound! It was no longer the true sound of laughter. It was something sinister that lingered. Something evil! It was not laughter at all. “You’re right. You’re not a good girl.” Laughter! How could there be laughter? I could hear it, but it sounds almost like the wail of a dying animal. He started toward me again, laughing his sinister laugh, and licking the blood paint on his mouth. After more of his morbid love making, telling me over and over again I was bad, he stopped, but this time part of him seemed to leave. The demon had drifted off to sleep, leaving just the man behind. He looked down and saw me there, painted in blood. I was a demon’s masterpiece, in a gallery of fear. There was a look of confusion on his face, then disgust. He sprang up and started to chase the demon, back and forth, beckoning it to complete the task it had begun. He yelled at the monster to stir it, and then followed it, begging for help. I don’t know when I stopped crying. It must have been a while before. My hair was thick with dried tears. The smell in the room was strong but almost normal now. There no longer seemed to be any life left in the smell. It seemed to give it less power over me. Back and forth he walked over the brown, matted, carpet. I watched as he made his way to and fro, seeming to try and process what was left to do. He would look into his hand and seem to see something. Perhaps a sadistic list of things to do. What could be missing? What could be left undone? The more he searched for those answers, the faster the journey became. Faster and faster, until it was almost frantic. I watched as the demon in him returned. Now he was wearing only the mask of the man I had seen before. He raced into my nightmare for one last encounter. This time it was different though. The child was dead, and now it was my turn. As he reached around to grab my hair, I lunged toward him and struck like a cobra, waiting in the shadows. I knew it was my chance. I had to get away, or remain forever trapped. I hit him hard, in the head, with my shoulder, and then fell to the floor. The shock made him slow to reach for me, a welcome discovery. I looked wildly around the room. The door. It was the door of my salvation, and the only chance I had. If he caught me he would kill me, but if I could get to the hallway I could get away. I could wake from the nightmare! I had to get to the door! I awoke to find I was wet with sweat, and screaming. It is amazing how real dreams can be. The breeze at an imaginary island paradise, or the smell your babies hair after a dreamed bath are the most precious of senses. Then there are the rest. The smell of blood was still lingering in my mind, and the taste of held back vomit was all too real to disregard. Over and over again I relive this same nightmare, each time having something different haunting me after I wake. I have them when my life swings out of control, but in some sort of maddening way, it seems to ground the other aspects of my life making them unimportant. When things are at their worst, they still are not as bad as that one memory. There are moments in everyone’s life they remember forever. Often they are little things. Riding your bike to the corner store, with your friends, to spend your allowance on candy. Your first real kiss. The kid in school who totally humiliated you. At the time, you swore you would never live it down. Good or bad, you remember them, even years later. There are some things you don’t remember. Some things are not important enough, and then there are the ones your mind can’t handle. That night was one I would only remember in pieces, and each one was worse than the last. I managed to get away from the most evil man I ever met. I managed to get away completely, until years later. Then it came back, like a shotgun blast. The memory struck me in the heart, and tore it to shreds. There had only been parts of it till then, but suddenly the floodgates flew open. There was a period of drowning in a sea of bloody memories, and pain. I escaped the early memories with drugs, mostly pot. Later I switched to alcohol, but the pot was my favorite. No hangover. The drugs I eventually left behind, but it would take a lifetime to wrestle down the demons of my past. Life looked normal after the rape. The sun came up in the morning, and the world came to life, but I buried the little girl who died in that hotel room. She was so small, and ordinary. A chubby little kid who’s biggest concern in life was riding shotgun in the car, or finishing her homework before it was dark, so she could go outside and play. I was washing away the rest of the memories in the shower, with a lot of soap and water, when my mother woke up. There could be nothing left when she saw me. By the time I dried off, the whole thing was gone, and I took over where everything else left off. We finished our vacation. We laughed and saw the sights, ate our meals, and acted normal. Life was great to look at, but when we would go back to the room, and I scarred over a little more. Now, I think it is only fair for it to be understood, my mother and I had some problems before this. She’d moved my brother and me to her mother and father’s house when we were very young. It was a necessary evil, due to her situation at the time. My father was a cheating, drunken sailor, and their marriage was falling apart as a result. One of the only memories I have of him is his lying to me on his way out the door. I never forgave him for it, and he never gave me any reason to try. The only time we would hear from him was at Christmas time. He would call us, drunk, and ask what we wanted from Santa. Nothing ever came, and we knew nothing ever would. In the beginning we would gleefully announce all of our childhood wants. Having listed everything we could think of, he would laugh, and chide that maybe we would get them this year. After a couple years of this kind of humiliation we learned Santa was only a prankster out to amuse himself, at our expense. After he left my mother went through the normal period of adjustment for the loss of her husband, and the dreams she had with him. While I was starting kindergarten, she was starting back to college. I raised my brother as much as I could, and tried to stay out of trouble. Over the years I had become resentful of having so much extra responsibility, but ironically, I was also resentful of her when she tried to walk back into the “mother” roll. Before we went on the trip things had been difficult. Afterward, however, they were down right impossible. I think my brother Mike suspected something had happened, but he never would have said anything. I was terrified I would get in trouble for having left the room that night. I couldn’t accept anything else ever happened from the start. I was afraid all the time. Nighttime was the worst. I dreamed about being grabbed, and held, so I couldn’t move. Sometimes I dreamed of rooms without doors. The worst was the dream of something hiding in the dark, but when I tried to scream for help nothing would come out. It was one thing to be hunted; it was another not to be able to get help. Eventually I stopped shaking at night, and started to fight during the day. I would fight with everyone, about anything. I found out how to make my mother fight with me. She would finally loose her temper, and hit, and I would fight back like a wild animal. Loosing the fight was not an option. Not any more. Any topic was fair game for a fight. I would wear clothes she didn’t like and we would fight. I would do something with my friends she didn’t approve of, hey, another fight. It finally became so ridiculous we would literally fight over anything at all, from talking on the phone, to what to have for dinner. She seemed to assume it was normal teenage rebellion, and I was fine with that belief. I no longer knew the reason things changed. I was angry, frightened, and I always felt trapped. I was caught in a vicious loop of fear and anger. I could get high for a while, and make it easier, but it never went away. At least if I was fighting with her I wasn’t fighting with myself. The more we would fight, the worse it would get, and the more I would need to fight again. I had to win the fight day after day. I was fighting for my life, and I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know how to remember having won the war with the demon. Things finally began to change when I met Pat. I had recently stopped dating my last boyfriend when we were introduced. Well, maybe dating is the wrong word. I didn’t date. I had sex. For some reason it was how I related to the men in my life. They were so interested in me in private. In public we didn’t talk. I was the fat kid everyone chose to harass, but when I had him alone, I could make him do anything I wanted. I had the power. There was no shortage of boys either. All I had to do was call, and they were suddenly my best friends, till the clothes went back on, and the last joint had been smoked. Then I would go back to being the least popular kid in school. I tried to stay to the sidelines every chance I got. I wore plain clothes, didn’t do my hair for school, and never, under any circumstances, tried to get anyone’s attention. I was the one people called names. If they called me the same names every day, they couldn’t notice who I really was. I had a few friends, on and off, through the years, but there was only one I ever really felt close to. Ceil and I met, of all things, on the detention bus. A teacher I didn’t even know pulled me back into school one day asking me about homework. I tried to explain I had no idea who she was, and didn’t have her for a class. Well, the long and short of it is, she was determined I was some girl named Ceil. I spent two hours in detention writing for this other girl. On the bus home I mentioned about wanting to meet this girl named Ceil. The part I didn’t mention at the time was I wanted to knock this girl’s teeth out. Next thing I knew a blonde popped up over the seat and announced she was Ceil. I bloodied her lip, she blackened my eye, but we both ended up with a new best friend out of it all. We were inseparable. We called each other about everything. Nothing was too big or small. Boys, classes, parents, makeup, everything. We didn’t usually end up at the same parties, but the only real differences were the names. She had recently met a new guy, but her mother didn’t trust him. She wouldn’t tell her not to date him, but she set her curfew at nine. There was a catch though, if she double dated with me, her curfew would go back to normal. Now that never made sense to me. Ceil and I tended to get into trouble on our own, but we got into a lot more trouble together than we ever did apart. Anyhow, that is how I met Pat. Somehow Pat was different from the rest, even at the start. He wanted to listen to me talk, and to know what I thought, not how I tasted. She begged me to go out with him. I complained, and refused, but she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. Finally I agreed to one date. There are moments in life you look back on and realize how important they are. This was one of those moments. The buildup was quite dramatic. He’s tall and slim, dark hair, and a mustache. He’s a real nice guy, and he has a car too. These were a few of the things I was told. He sounded perfect. Another pretty boy to take advantage of, then be ignored by. She told me I should come over and meet him, and we could make plans to double date. We talked for a few more minutes, and then she sent her boyfriend to pick me up. After I hung up the phone I put on my coat, told my grandmother what time I would be home, and walked to the bottom of the driveway to wait for my ride. My grandmother liked Ceil. She fit in our family better than I did sometimes. I had other friends that tried to do the same thing, but she was the only one to manage it. Because of this, it was common for me to go to her house, or for her to come to mine, and no one would think anything of it. I didn’t have to worry about what my mother thought. She was working, and wouldn’t be home until around midnight. The weather outside was brisk, but comfortable for November in Western New York State. The leaves were off the trees, except for a few holding on until well into the winter months. There was almost no breeze, but you could still smell the scents of leaves, grass, and the soon to be coming snow. I stood at the base of the driveway, kicking at the stones, and breathing the evening air. It wasn’t long before a rumble in the distance would interrupt my Zen nature experience. I could hear the car from a mile away. When you are a seventeen-year-old boy you invest your money in speakers, not mufflers. I listened to the car rumble up the hill toward me, and considered for a moment what I had just agreed to. I knew what to expect of Ceil’s boyfriend. He would be a roughneck with a soft underbelly, and a taste for sex and drugs. About him I was right. He was everything I thought he would be, but the buildup for Pat left a sour taste in my mouth. The car pulled up, and I opened the door to get in back. There were two boys in the car, but I could not see very well. It was dark, and the dome light didn’t work. I was introduced to Pat, in the passenger seat. I said hello, and was greeted only with a nod. It was a long, nerve-wracking ride to Ceil’s house. The ride in real time only took about eight minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime. The stereo was playing Kim Mitchell, and the conversation was non-existent. Finally the car pulled into the driveway, and the engine shut off. I opened the car door and started up the drive, only to find I was alone. Perhaps this was a mistake after all. Everything inside of me was wound tight. There are some things that make each of us question ourselves. There’s no reason for what runs through our minds, nor is there a way to stop it once it starts. I was thinking of a hundred things at once, and none of them made any sense. I was walking in the house, and they weren’t. I didn’t know why, but I had my theories. I continued on my way to the door, and went in. At least I wasn’t alone in there. Ceil was sitting at the kitchen table, a grin on her face. She was obviously expecting something from me. I was almost afraid to ask what it might be. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. She looked at me and asked what I thought of him. I stood in the kitchen, trying to think how to tell her I didn’t know, when the door opened behind me. In walked a young man, who had to be Denis, Ceil’s new boyfriend. He was a heavyset, longhaired blonde who strutted through the door with all of the grace of a one legged duck. You could tell by the grin his drug of choice was pot, but then again, I think he could tell the same about me. He removed a worn leather coat as he came in the room but seemed to stall, about half way, to look back at the door. After a very long pause, a shadow came in, followed by Pat. He was over six feet tall, with dark hair, and a mustache, but that is where the description began to differ from the image. He was very skinny, with acne speckled, olive skin. At some point his nose had been badly broken, and not set in place, leaving him with a distinctive bump. He covered his unruly black hair with a worn baseball cap, and from the grease on his hands he had obviously been working on a car earlier that day. Bell-bottom jeans and a polyester cowboy shirt overshadowed the maroon colored canvas sneakers. I was no fashion queen myself, but by the mid eighties I thought this level of bad taste was impressive enough to warrant the death penalty. He stood in the doorway, and tried to disappear. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone look so scared. It was the first time it had ever occurred to me maybe men had doubts. There was a chance this guy was not out to take what he could, and then walk all over what was left. I believe he thought he was disposable, and that made him all too much like me. We all ended up sitting together at the table, but only three of us seemed to be talking. I was finding myself wondering what was wrong with Pat to make him so afraid to even join in on telling jokes. I tried everything, from asking where he went to school, to how he met Denis, but all I seemed to get were shoulder shrugs, and one-word answers. Things were most definitely not how I thought they should be. The chatting went on for some time, and the tension continued until I thought I would pop. Finally I couldn’t take any more, and I asked about playing a game. There was a room, across the hall, Ceil’s mother used to rent out. Now it was empty, and the perfect place to seduce my new victim. Ceil and I went in first. I plucked a dollar bill from my purse, and slid it into my bra. I was ready to break the ice, once and for all. When the boys walked in, I walked over; hands behind my back, I suggested we play find the dollar bill. I was hooked from the moment he touched me. He reached toward me, blushing a deep crimson, and checked in my pockets. I was amazed how sincerely he seemed to think that would be where I had put the bill. I took my chance, to retain control, and turned my head to catch his lips with mine. I experienced the single worst kiss of my young life. His untrained lips were warm and moist. He had no idea what to do, or how to start, and I think I scared him half to death. He pulled away almost as soon as it began, but it was enough to make me want more from him. Before the night was over I had tampered with his virginity, and had started to teach this young man about girls, and their bodies. There were several lessons that night. I think the most important one was I could hurt this man very easily, and for the first time, the thought scared me. He was as innocent as could be, and I was reaching into him in ways no one ever had before. I was touching more than just his body. I was touching his spirit. I went home looking forward to my date in a few days, and feeling as though I was somehow a little more special than when I left home that night. I hadn’t been home for very long when the phone rang. I figured it was most likely Ceil, but I was wrong. I answered the phone, and a deep voice said hello back to me. I didn’t recognize the voice, so I waited for the other person to say something more. After several seconds it became clear there would be nothing more said, without some prompting. “Hello?” “Yeah, is Leanne there?” “This is she.” “Hi.” More silence. What kind of freak was this? Now I was starting to get irritated. “Who is this?” “Pat.” “Oh! Hello Pat. Wait, how did you get my number?” “I asked Ceil.” “Oh, well, OK. What’s up?” “Nothing.” “OK, well, you didn’t call for nothing.” “No.” I waited again. This guy was more than just difficult to talk to, he was impossible. After a couple more seconds I couldn’t take it any more, and my irritation came out. “Well then, what do you want? I do have things to do other than sit here waiting for you to say something.” “I just called...well, um...I love you.”
Copyright © 2003 Sylvia Browne |