I am small in my bed. I must be five or six. I am on the bottom bunk. I look up at the wooden slats supporting the mattress above me. The glow-in-the-dark stars are there so I won’t be afraid. There’s an amazing mural painted on the wall. The Cat in the Hat balancing on a ball. My mom painted it. My mom is the best artist I know. Two squares of light appear in the corner and move slowly across the wall, then disappear into the closet. After a minute they appear again, this time starting from the closet and moving in the opposite direction. The fading whine and rumble was louder that time. Must have been a truck.
There is someone in my room. It’s a man. His hair is black. He is over me. I am being squished. I am being pushed. I can’t breathe right. His hand is over my mouth. His hand is on my mouth and I can’t scream. My hips are being pushed down, down deep into the bed. I struggle to get free, but I can’t. I can’t move. I am too small. The man is too big. Pain washes over me. Waves of pain. Wave after wave of unbearable, unimaginable pain. Oh God, make it stop. Please make it stop! I am being punished. I am being vivisected. I am … BAD!
In my memory, there is something strange about the man’s face. It’s all gray. It’s missing. Somehow I took a giant pink eraser and rubbed it out from the picture. The man’s identity was something I refused to see. It was the truth I refused to know.