Good Friday

Every year around this time I become a bit unearthed. I usually don’t let things bother me and I can pretty much get over bad incidents that have occurred to me; except for one.

In 1984 my mother and I lived with her “man” his two children; a “son” and a “daughter”. Both of her man’s children were older than me; the daughter by a year and the son by two years. We moved in and February and moved out in April. The reason being was that I was beaten and sexually molested by the “son” when I was 10 years old.

At first I didn’t want to tell anyone. When a child is threatened in the middle of the night, and during bus rides home from school with violence, it has a tendency to keep any promise for being “saved” from happening. The “son” told me that if I said anything he would kill me. I believed him. It was a month before I said anything. It was the longest month of my life.

During the time in which my mother and I lived at her man’s house, I didn’t get to see my father very often. When I did, I would cry when I left his house because the thought of having to go back with my mother made my stomach churn to the point in which I would vomit. No one knew I had vomited. I kept that to myself.

Over the course of the month, I thought of ways to tell my mother what was happening to me while she was out with her “man” drinking whiskey and smoking endless packs of cigarettes. The “son” said if I told her that she wouldn’t believe me anyway if I did tell and that it wouldn’t matter because I would be dead. I believed him.

On Good Friday in 1984 my mother planned to drop me off at my father’s house for the weekend. I was very much looking forward to spending the weekend with him, not only because it had been such a long time since I had saw him last, but because I knew it was time to tell someone. I knew my father would believe me and he would trust me.

When I arrived at his house, I immediately went downstairs to where he was working on a project. I had begun to cry and shake violently. When my father asked me what was wrong I told him…everything. He immediately called my mother and berated her for what I had to endure. My mother only had one thing to say to my father, “I think she is lying.”

The next few hours were a blur. I went to the hospital to have a cervical exam completed, which showed that I had bruising and there was no way I was lying about what happened to me. I had to go to the local police department and write, in detail, about everything I had to endure over that month. My mother had shown up, drunk, wanting to console me. I decided to hold my father’s hand instead.

After that Good Friday in 1984, my relationship with my mother never recovered. My relationship with my father, however, continued to endure with each year that passed. He would call me each year on Good Friday, just to make sure I was okay. That is definitely one call I would like more than anything tomorrow, but I know the telephone will never ring again.

Being unearthed is a good way to describe how I feel. Although I will not receive my telephone call, I know my father’s presence is still here. It might not be a “good” Friday tomorrow, but the day after will be even better.