We are camping in our back yard; me the teenager and I.

We’ve set up the military puptent (everything around here is military, except the outside world – and I guess that includes everything outside the house as well as in – though we are living inside the house, where things are much better – and worse at the same time.  The outside world is a civilian neighborhood.  A sandlot and stuff -that’s the neighborhood we live in; surrounded by decent neighbors (most of them) and our friends.

This family is called ‘neighborhood’ – and neighborhood is one big family – tighter than that.  Our family doesn’t have what this neighborhood does: a sense of belonging and rightousness; loving hugs and things.  A woman who teaches us piano, and treats us as if we were one of her own sons.  (She has 3 of them; and a daughter on the way.)

But its come nightfall, and I and the teenager and my best friend – or perhaps it was my little brother – I’m not sure – he left in the middle of the night to go sleep in the house, leaving me and the teenager alone.

We are surrounded by the smell of dark canvas; OD green it is called.  Olive Drab (kinda like our own life: Olive Drab is covering everything, and every thing we get in.  Olive Drab is the color of our skin; when we bleed blood it is green.  I know because our momma has told us so: we are Army within and without and in all times and things.

Olive Drab kinda describes my life in these things.

And we are in the tent, and the smell is of old canvas – Olive Drab: an Army thing.  You would have to go stand close or in an old Army tent to know this smell.  Once it hits you – once you’ve ‘been in’ – you’ll never forget this thing.  (back me up on this, old soldier friends of mine – yeah YOU out there who have been in the military.  YOU know this smell.  Tell them what it brings: the friendship and the comfort of Olive Drab – and that gentle undercurrent of fear.  Smelling it you know you are back ‘home’.  Wherever that one is.  For this time of your life.)

The teenager turns next to me.  I am a small child (but a BIG one inside!) – about 8 or 9 years of age, I’m reckoning.  Not much older than that.  (I’m thinking the teenager had this thing for younger kids; ones about half my age.  We have outgrown him and his pedophilic tastes.)

“Please fuck me in the ass,” I remember begging him.

He looks at me.  I’m curled up in my soft warm blanket.  Only its not a blanket at all.  Its this thing like a giant green worm.  Its called “Sleeping Bag, Arctic”  It will keep you warm down to -30 some odd degrees or something.  It is filled with warm douse queen warm feathers. (He means “Goose down, Army, military or something.)  It is OD green.  Just like our lives are at this time.

He rolls over and looks at me.  The flashlight is dying; a yellow beam.  It is so low – and the canvas so thick – that not a single beam escapes.

“I don’t want to,” he says.

I beg him some more.  I put my hand on his arm.  I’m praying that he will love me.

“Please cornhole me in the ass,” I’m begging him again, over and over.  There are tears in my eyes.  I want this thing, knowing in some way it is a BAD thing I am doing – the parents will KILL us if they find out – but I can’t help it.

I’m wanting this thing called “love” – the thing that’s been missing my entire life, even unto now.

And so he does it.  Rolling me on my belly, he pulls my shorts down (painfully, grasping and grabbing and yanking on them.)  Then he does my underwear.  Yanking and pulling them down to my knees.

And then he spreads my ass and rolling on top of me (there is nowhere to stand; we have done this thing standing again before I think; I know I am: he fills my ass with pee sometimes and it trickles down my leg and then I go home wondering: will my mom find out?  Will she see/smell this thing?  This dried urine on my ass and thighs and things?  But she never does.)

And then he’s doing it but it HURTS this time; he isn’t using his finger and spit this time; he’s doing it bone dry.  But I’m loving him (sort of; it HURTS this time and he’s being ROUGH with me – not slapping me around this time, but hurting me somewhere deep inside – inside in a lot of places and ways I’ve never imagined before; never expected to be hurt this way by him; never even saw this one coming.  But I should have.  I am a child of 9 years old.  I should know this thing.  There’s been subtle hints before: him pushing me away in favor of my younger brother who is  slightly older than I – but looks much younger; plus he’s pale and thin and weak in the body and mind.  Not like me who is strong and fit and a husky child with blonde hair.  Crewcut you know: military mind; father running our life – even when he’s not there.  Off to war or something; he’s always off doing something.  Even when he’s there.)

But we look adorable, that I am knowing.  Adorable enough for this thing (hoping we do, because we want to be LOVED by him, one and all and everyone about and around us.)  Silly dreams us children are having: wanting to be loved.  By anyone and everyone and getting nothing in return.

That’s the way it is I suppose sometimes: you find yourself reaching out only to have your hand slipping away – or slapped or something.

Like a slap in the face this thing is; what is coming in our futures.  And we just don’t know it yet.

Our entire life has been on giant slap in the face sometimes.  I should have saw it coming.

He rolls off.  He’s not done – but he is.  A growing sense of frustration.  We look at him sad, twisting our head to look at the head against the green canvas walls.  He looks mad at us.  We were enjoying the feeling of his skin; skin against our backs and things.  Hands on our arms; holding us down somewhat as he put this thing in; hurting us and things.

And we enjoyed it – but not that last part.  The hurting and things.

And he tells us?

“You were goddamn lousy.  You aren’t no good.  You ain’t worth doing it with.  Your ass stinks like shit.  I’m gonna be leaving you alone forever; you’re never gonna come back.  I don’t want you doing this thing with me anymore, this cornholing thing.”  And then he laughs (quite cruely, hurting, taunting)  “I want you to find more small children for me.  That kid and you next door.  I want him.”

And then he laughs some more – cruelly and mocking.  We are starting to cry those little pitiful tears of childhood lost; a childhood that never truly began.

And he turns over and falls asleep, turning the light off (in so many freakin’ ways, and the light in our souls: this loving him) – leaving us to cry and wonder, rolling on our back and staring at this thing

This Olive Drab our life has become.  You can’t even see the stars outside.

It is too dark, this thing.

(Final note: author’s note: Imagine you are that small child.  You’ve just been rejected by this friend of yours; the one you have been loving and playing with for four and five small years.  Your dad is always gone; your mom a mean and small cruel bitch – as bitchy as they come, and even crueler sometimes: locking you in your room for hours; sometimes .. sometimes it seemed for years.  Yes, we did this thing: locking ourselves in our “rooms” for years – years and years and years without end.  sometimes we are doing it right now; hurting inside, comforting our small child crying – he gets hurt so easily and so readily … and we are crying for him

But never on the outside.  We can’t cry for him.  Not really.  Not for anyone – even you my friends, even when we see YOU twisted and tortured in pain.

But know this: we are crying within forever – for you, for us, for them – and everything that you ever went though

Including him, this small child of mine.

Rejection hurts us.  And this is but ONE small reason why.

Because we were rejected by him: the one who loves us and wants us.

Even if he was fucking us in the end.

(Tags chosen/reason:  Therapy: to help us.  Spreading Child Abuse: because we did.  Love: because we were wanting those things.  Memories: because it is, even if no one else remembers – it ws REAL this very thing – dark down to the core of our being, we know this one is true.  Child Molestation: duh.  Family: because we had none; and after this – not even our friend.  Children: because we are one, at least one of 5 within.  Child Abuse: I reckon it was, in some ways.  To this day we have a hard time telling (which leads to guilt and things – unsurity).  Child Exploitation: because he was exploiting us and other children in our neighborhood – and using us to ‘recruit’ through exploiting them on our own, bringing them to him and into his own ‘fold’ (and hold and loving  …. but the other children weren’t so willing, not as willing as I).  Experiences in Learning: because we learned something in this thing: love hurts one, VERY badly indeed (giving rise to the Matthew being in the end.)

And finally Marriage: in that in every sense of the way and word, we were married to him.  Loving him … even now (a bit; not as much as before) – and holding him and seeking his comfort

All the while pleasing him.

Even if he did pee in our ass sometimes (and I suppose THAT says something about how HE saw us children in the hood – something to be used by him – and then discarded and thrown away.)

It hurts, this thing; even NOW it friggin’ hurts so bad.

I know I’m supposed to cry but I can’t.  Matthew is stepping in; separating child from one another – sending them on to our Island Paradise – protecting us from him and one another – and protecting his own self through these dark emotions

Olive green.  And Olive Drab.  They are both the same thing in my eyes.  (and if you can’t see life and death in that – I suppose you are blinder than we are/I am) – signed Matthew and Mikie and friends.

Our Island Paradise: Me and Little Mikie