His secret

Chapter 53

It's already hard enough to think about it, not that I can escape the thoughts, although it's been what? 4 years? It all happened when I was 11 years old and I'm a 15-year-old teenager now, writing about my thoughts and feelings just because my stupid teacher had the stupid idea of sending me to the school counselor because I had far too many fights. She told me that she believed I had some "anger and insecurity" stored inside me that take out on another with violence. The school counselor on the other hand gave up on me after a week of trying to get me to talk, "This is beyond my profession, I think he'll need to see a therapist instead." I heard her tell the school principal when he came to check on me one day. After that, I got sent to a psychologist and here I am now, a few months later, writing letters because I had refused to talk to her too.

Nevertheless, it was near impossible for me to write down the whole story in one sitting. It's been a month since I wrote the first part of what my mother did when two months after the death of my father. The plan was that I would write the whole story in that part, but as I began writing and found myself in the part where I was supposed to talk about the rape I just couldn't continue. I've been procrastinating ever since. However, I've gathered myself and settled on writing the whole thing, in hope that I'll get it over with.

"I really missed you," that phrase was the beginning of the one-year-long hell I lived through. It was a phrase I longed for, but not in the way she said it to me. Not with the intentions and thoughts behind it. She loved him and missed him very much, and so had I but I didn't go insane like her. Or so I think. I think she went insane because I don't think a sane mother would ever do the things she did to me to her own child. I reminded her very much of him, and with each day that went by I grew older and grew to be an exact copy of him. That tempted her very much. It started with "I really missed you," and a tight, suffocating hug, to long glances while I cooked, studied, and cleaned, to unexpected hugs and smacking kisses on my forehead and cheek until it wasn't enough so she kissed me on the mouth.

I remember that first time very well. I had just come back from school and she was waiting for me, sitting on the couch and staring at an empty wall. As I opened the door she immediately jumped to her feet and greeted me with a tight hug, three aggressive kisses on each cheek, and then she landed a kiss on my mouth. Stumbling backward, away from her I wiped my lips, choked from her sudden, unexpected gesture. "What is it, don't you love me?" she asked me, with sorrow in her eyes and I couldn't help but feel guilt. "Of course I do, mom," I told her as I dropped my schoolbag and embraced her. "I love you, mom," I emphasized the word mom every time I spoke it, wanting to remind her that I'm her son, not her husband that I unwillingly resembled so much. How stupid of me to think it would work. It didn't stop her from touching me in an impropriety way as I hugged her.

I tried to back away but I couldn't, she was bigger than me after all. I couldn't back away and her touching grew more intense the more I tried to resist until I was completely pinned down and raped by her. Yeah, I was raped by my own mother, not once, not twice, almost daily during a year.

Miles