Warning:  This Story may contain ‘triggers’ for child abuse / molestation survivors.
Be Safe.


It was shortly after “he” had betrayed me, telling the whole ‘hood (or at least all the teenagers and my closest friends) that I “sucked cock”, “liked sucking cock” and would suck off anyone (which I wouldn’t – I had to love them or at least like them first). I don’t know what was wrong with me – I can feel the child’s rage that was growing within me; a simmering subconscious anger, a smoldering burn. In retrospect I can understand the source of this sea of anger, but at the time I did not know what to do with it, where it had come from. Like a rogue wave which hints of a storm over the horizon, I would feel that wave of anger wash over me, flushing my face, tightening my child’s fists, filling me with electric tension. It was a strange anger because it was not “anger” so much as a hidden rage – a raging inside I could not ‘feel’, but it was there. I knew it was there – constantly, an ever-present demon – and it was a rage at HIM. For telling, for “outing” me – making me feel ashamed. For there being a bit of truth in his words: I would suck dick; I loved giving pleasure, and feeling pleasure. I especially loved that feeling of ‘control’ it gave me over him – ‘controlling’ by controlling the pleasure I gave to him. It was the only sense of control I knew, come to think about it – awesome as a little kid – but entirely wrong, and I knew that, too. I could not put my finger on the causes of all these mixed emotions, or else as a child I would of tried to solve it. I was used to solving things on my own. But being of a calm demeanor and a normally pleasant attitude, I would sometimes stand frozen in a state of anger and rage, wondering what was bothering me. Perhaps that is what led me to do what I did.

One autumn day, not long after that betrayal, I was standing by the side of the house, along the outside wall of the laundry room which abutted the open carport. I don’t know if it was premeditated – but it there was a pencil in my hand – one of those big fat children’s pencils with the thick lead. This is one of the areas where my brain goes faulty – I must of went into the house, gotten the pencil, planning this thing – and yet I have no memory of that. All I know – all I can remember – is that suddenly I was standing there next to the house, staring at the redwood siding.

An electric meter was mounted there, a round glass blister that gleamed in the sun. I can see this fairly well – the events after I got the pencil seemed to be etched into my mind. The little wheel was turning, the round eyes of the dial staring out at me. And going up to the meter, I began to write the same word, over and over again all around the meter.

I wrote it large and small, pressing the pencil into the soft grain of the siding. Why I wrote it – well I can only suspect. Perhaps it was the reason for my anger, the source of my anger: what the word meant to me. After all, if you’ve read my stories, you know what was happening to me.

“FUCK.” I wrote. “FUCK” and “FUCK” again. I could feel my anger and rage against the teenager burning in me; flowing out through those words. “FUCK” (with a silent exclamation point behind each one). Over and over again I wrote it. I can see it now – the words tilted at angles, the letters running across the grain. The redwood siding was hard to write on – the letters didn’t show up good, and the grain kept throwing my pencil off, making my writing jagged and spiky. I wrote ‘fuck’ a dozen times, maybe more, retracing the letters, pressing hard. It was hard writing on that wood. And all the while the white hot anger burned, with me not knowing why.

Later that afternoon – perhaps it was the next day – my mother and father came bursting into my bedroom.

“Did you write on the wall?” they demanded. “Did you write those nasty words?”

I felt a cold fear.

“No,” I lied. “What words?”

They stood staring at me for a long moment, then jerking me up by one arm, they trotted me outside.

“That!” my mom hissed, her voice angry and bitter. “Those words? Do you see them?”

I looked at the wall, trying to bring it into focus. I didn’t want to see those words I wrote. Finally I lied again.

“No,” I said. “HE wrote them.” ‘He’ was the teenager. He was the one who had taught us not only the meaning of the word, but had been performing it on us, with us sometimes – and having us (the other little kids of the neighborhood) do the same thing to each other.

My parents looked at me sternly, doubtful, angry, and highly suspicious. Seeing it now, in my own mind, I don’t blame them. The words were scrawled in a childish scrawl, with none of the finesse’ a teenager might give them. They led me back to my room.

“You stay here,” they commanded, leaving the room.

I sat there motionless for what seemed hours, though I’m sure it didn’t take that long. Of course I know there is no way to for me to know exactly what transpired, but being a parent myself, I can suspect. My parents probably went over to the neighbor’s house, where the teenager lived, and asked him about it. They probably went out and looked at the words. They may even had the teenager write the word, and compare what was on the wall against his own handwriting. At any rate they came back into my bedroom later, their minds made up, conviction held.

“Did you write those words on the wall, Michael?” I remember them asking me. Writhing with misery, I denied it again.

They kept on pressuring me. I kept on denying it. Finally they either broke me down, or decided that they had had enough.

“We know you wrote those words on the wall,” they firmly declared. “And you are going to remove them.”

I don’t recall much of what happened after that, so I think the beating came first. A good first rate pounding – not just for writing those words, but knowing them at all. I reckon they wanted to beat the knowledge out of me – and I doubt they knew how much I knew about the function of the word: fuck. Not as in just cussing but having sex. Nor did they know about that thing: us fucking each other all the time.

But I do remember in the end standing at that wall, my backside hurting – hurting all over, from thigh to shoulder – scrubbing at those words with an eraser – but the words wouldn’t come off. I’d bore down too hard, sinking the end of the pencil into the redwood siding. Try as I might, I kept seeing those words. There’s almost something symbolic in that thing: those words were burned into my soul, like those dark nights we’d kept silent about; like those days we kept silent – like those times we’d come in limping and go to the bathroom, cleaning ourself off. I kept on scrubbing at those words until late in the evening, until my hands were sore and blistered and I finally gave up. No matter what I could do, nothing would erase them; like the effects of the molestation, humiliation and rejection, they were there to stay. In a sense I was being punished – abused – for having given in; for having been molested – so often a tale told by childhood abuse survivors.

And in my heart a fear and an anger began to blossom. In mind’s eye I saw the gun.

What would the teenager do.