TW: This piece deals with sensitive topics.
Silently Slipping Under
As I lie in my bed between the state of
dreaming and consciousness,
I listen to the suffocating silence that drowns the house
in a sinister feeling.
The air soon fills with a deafening sound of
creaking wood, someone slyly creeping down
the stairs two at a time,
slightly pausing every four as
if to keep from being heard in the latest of hours.
Breathing slowly
at first, then quicker with every second passed,
the footsteps cushioned by carpet
insidiously, yet energetically, approaching my
bedroom door, I
burrow deeper and deeper into
my lightly blanketed bed.
The atoms in the air flail about
uncontrollably as the
footsteps draw nearer before
coming to a halt centimeters from my
closed door,
the hairs on my neck standing on end
like newly planted trees.
Just as the intruder reaches for the door knob, I
reach for Shadow, longing for the feeling of
protection
she always gives me. I hear the faint
rustle of the intruder’s
jacket as they raise their arm
ever so slightly, the sound of the intruder’s hand
grabbing the knob so distant, I thought
‘it must be another bad dream.’
My breathing now a thing of the past,
– how long had I been holding my breath? –
the high-pitched squeal of the metal
door knob turning
has become so clear in the
ominous cloud of silence – or is that the ringing in my ears?
The metal-on-metal squeal ceased
only for a second, but
long enough to hear the invader draw their
final breath before the door was
thrust open with a low grunt and a firm gasp.
The irony of my own survival had
become dependent on the lack of sound and
movement coming from the
heap of blankets I disguised myself as, yet
my need for
oxygen
caused me to gulp vehemently for air,
drawing attention to the
once lifeless bundle I had molded myself into.
I felt the intruder’s gaze
burn
through my
skin,
muscle,
bone,
and the few layers of blankets I had become,
down
to the very core of my being:
my soul.
The clomping of the invader’s shoes
on the carpeted
concrete
floor
has become vociferous as they
take the last three
steps to my
bed
before placing one,
two,
three fingers on the blanketed form – me.
I let out a shriek as the
intruder’s fingers
touched down on my shin – that of a mouse
who had just seen a
cat for the
first time.
The intruder’s movements weren’t so gracious
anymore – their hands ruthlessly
thrashing about
searching for an entryway to the
contents
of the bundle, to the child who was
unaware
of the danger she was in.
The tears come running down my
face as the incandescent light from the
overhead fixture
floods my vision, the intruder – a masculine
figure – ousting a
low, gravelly grunt as I blink
back the tears and hope my vision clears.
I get one clear look of
him
before my eyes fill up with tears
again. I saw this man’s face earlier
today – who is he?
He spoke words of comfort – ‘everything will be
okay’ – but to no avail. My Transformers
pajama bottoms were the
first to go – ‘help’ – followed by my
mismatching
Tinker Bell pajama shirt – ‘shh, you’re okay’ –
and Scooby Doo undies.
My scream was
muffled
with his left hand
while his other hand fumbled around with
his zipper.
The intruder’s scent floats
through
the air as he bends over me – he’s wearing the
same cologne my grandpa wears – my room
slowly filling up
with the smell of
fear
and
old man.
I let out another cry for help but my vocal chords
have been rubbed raw.
I become fixated on
the beauty of the recently-purchased glass
horse perching on my blue shelf
a little too
high
off the ground for me to reach it.
I close my eyes.
The Flee market was my second
favorite place to go during the summer – topped
only by Water World – because of the
bumper cars and
horse rides.
On this particularly sunny day, we went out
for snow cones before spending
the afternoon
at the Flee market. Climbing out of the
SUV, I tripped and my snow cone flew through
the air, splattering on the car
parked next to us.
‘Stop … moving’
Being an unhappy camper for the majority
of the afternoon, we walked by
the final booth – where I spotted the
glass horse –
before crashing out my anger at the bumper cars
arena.
‘Dad, somebo-’
I dragged the babysitter over to the horse and
demanded that she
pick it up for me to examine it carefully
for seven seconds before
paying the gentle lady with a grape lolly pop and
marching on to the bumper cars.
‘Don’t make this hard for me’
Later that night, dad placed the horse – Fredrick –
on the too-high shelf above
my karaoke machine and I promised
myself that day was the
best
any day could get.
My body tenses
up
as he grabs my
shoulders
and shakes me
like I shake a bottle of pop before giving
it to my brother. I force my eyes open and look
at him in the eye before he
stands up, my whole body aching
like I had just jumped off – and survived – a three story
building.
I look away as a rain storm of tears
pours down my face
while he zips up his $19.99 jeans and buttons his
banana-yellow shirt. He kneels on the bed
once more and – my throat raw from screaming –
in the process of
trying
to redress me,
succeeds
in marauding my body for what I hope is
the last time for the night,
before he gives up on
clothing me.
He clomps in his old-man shoes towards the bedroom
door but turns around and, with a
smile,
mouths something I can’t quite make out
in the still-blinding
incandescent overhead lighting.
I wake up to the sound of footsteps above me and
the same male voice
I heard last night.
Why am I naked?
I slip on the pile of pajamas I see on the floor
before trudging upstairs to see who is visiting.
‘Grandpa?’
This is the third morning this week I’ve cried within
the first ten minutes of
waking up
and the thirteenth day since I last ate
anything.
It has been 19 years – almost 20 – since
that first night and I feel hatred toward
you
now more than ever. The
beauty
and
innocence
of a child taken away
within
seconds.
Were you aware of the fear and hatred you implanted
in me towards you?
Razors.
One cut for every single time you tell me
everything is going to be
okay.
Cigarettes.
One drag for every ‘shh.’
Alcohol.
One shot for every rainstorm of tears I cry
when in your presence.
Objects hold so much meaning.
I drown myself, let the objects and
their meanings
kill me.
I dip my feet
in the water,
silently
slip under,
and let the flow of the tide
wash me and
my untold
secrets
away.
Kole is a Senior in Accounting at Grand View University and enjoys writing poetry in her spare time. Her purpose as a poet is to encourage open dialogue on the topics of physical and sexual abuse, depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts and ideations.