I remember being tied down to my bed. I fought it the whole time. My hands were tied together, and then my feet.
I begged them to not do this. I begged and fought for the life of me that they wouldn't hurt me like this. I hated being tied down. I freaked everytime. My heart would start racing, my breathing became harder and harder to control. I couldn't stand it. I just couldn't stand it. It was insain.
After that, they would tie me to the bed or inside a locked closet when I figured out how to get out of bed.
When we were tied down, both -K- and I were naked. After not being able to move, -J- and -R- would touch our privates and -J- sometimes had sex with me. I couldn't stop him from hurting -K-. The only way to do that was to make him stay hurting me, which I did most of the time. I would fight him, or try to, and it meant it would take longer, which in the end, meant that -K- wouldn't have to be hurt by him.
That still didn't stop -R- from hurting -K- though. I knew she was being touched, but I also knw that she wasn't made to have sex, so I guess I saved her a little from that. It was better than getting the alternative.
After having sex with me, we were blind-folded and our mouths were taped shut. It was so we couldn't scream for help. I wouldn't ever do that anyway, because I never wanted to make him mad. I didn't want to take the chance that what he said was true, and that nobody would believe me. I was only two years old, and I couldn't just sit there and pray on a whim that the first person I told would believe me. I just kept quiet, even when I did have the chance. What's the chance that whoever I told was going to go and tell -J- that I was being bad?
As I'm sitting here typing this, I can feel the anger and sadness all at once taking over. Angry at him for not telling me the truth, and for hurting me so bad, and sadness because it hurt so bad. To lay there, with no clothes on for sometimes two or three days in a row.
I remember my father with me tied to the bed so I couldn't move, having sex with me. He enjoyed making me hurt. He enjoyed making me suffer. Everyday there was always something new that he did. There was always something new that he would want to try, especially when he came back from those times when he was gone for long periods.
He acted very strange after coming home from his little escapades. He would make comments like, I've found the chosen one, stuff along that lines, to me. |
