… in the attic

the boy crawled under the blanket in the middle of the night headed straight for my private parts. i was twelve and having unlearned sleep years before had been laying there quietly with both hands formed into fists. when he lifted my nightgown i felt a mix of nausea, horror, and incredulity mixed with knowing. he was a toddling pervert, his fathers blood already revealed in his actions.

i didn’t say a word when i lifted the blanket but he made up for it with his screams after i punched the shit out of him. he was four but he never tried touching me again and i for the remainder of my life would have trouble believing he wasn’t an evil man sprouted in an infants body skipping every stage of innocence. i firmly believed he might be the devil, his father skipping dimensions, a man who did the same thing to me without consequence for years but who also taught me how to ride a bike and damn if that motherfucker didn’t also teach me how to get back up and keep pedaling through the goddamn pain along a dirt path where even flowers feared to tread.

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