Blue Ink on Paper
Trauma #1
Albert Brunt is his name. But don't tell anyone that. I don't want them to report him. I love him.
*******
Albert was the special education teaching assistant for fourth and fifth graders. And he was quite old. I think this was his second job. He had gray thinning hair and a gray beard. He always treated me very kindly.
When I would act badly in class due to my anxiety, he was the one who would pull me out and take me into a spare, windowless office that I called the "Little Room." There he gave me fun, creative assignments instead of my usual dull busywork.
The Little Room was my safe place. The quietness and seclusion calmed me down, and having Albert there gave me a sense of safety. I liked how he would massage my shoulders when I was stressed. I liked how he called me beautiful and stroked my cheeks. I liked how he smelled so clean and fresh. How his wrinkly, trembling hands were soft and warm.
I still remember the first time Albert fondled me. I was working on my long division. He leaned over me, hands on my shoulders, and guided me through each problem. I wore a pink tank top that day. It was very loose, such that if I moved a certain way my developing breasts would show.
As he told me the steps to complete the problem, his hands traveled to my arms. He began to stroke them gently. I liked the way it felt. I liked how he treated me, how he loved on me.
"I like your tank top. Mind if I adjust it?" he asked me.
"Go ahead."
His hands traveled to the inside of my tank top. I felt his hands brush my nipples. Then his hands cupped my breasts. I could hear his breathing become unsteady.
These, I knew, were my private parts. I had never had anyone touch them, especially not a teacher. I felt embarrassed, exposed. But I liked him. I trusted him.
He kissed my head and told me I was a sexy girl, but then he added, "Don't tell anyone about this or I will have to kill them."
*****
It got worse. It got so bad I hardly remember what happened. But I have flashbacks of him, stroking me all over my body, as I stood there naked, frozen, my clothes tossed all over the floor. He would lock the door. Nobody could get in, nobody ever tried.
I have one flashback that doesn't make sense to me. I see him pinning me down, moving inside of me. Ripping me apart with just his penis. It hurt, it hurt, it fucking hurt. And then I feel him cum. I hear him grunt, stand up, and say to me, "I wouldn't want to be in bed with you, that's for sure."
He began to get meaner, more withdrawn. He no longer helped me with my work, no longer gave me fun assignments. I did long division on my own, getting every problem wrong. I remember he called me a retard as he looked over my answers. "We've been over this so many times," he muttered, writing a big fat zero at the top of the page.
Then he would be nice all over again. He told me he loved me. He told me I was a beautiful girl with a beautiful, curvy body. I would fall in love with his pale blue eyes, his smile, his kindness.
Then he squeezed my butt and told me I was getting a little chunky.
But the good parts seemed to stick in my mind more than the bad parts.
*****
The abuse stopped when I got expelled. That's another story, though. Albert hurt me, but he also loved me, and I loved him.
It's called Stockholm Syndrome, therapists say to me. That means the victim feels positive feelings for their abuser, sometimes to the point of loving them. It is a survival strategy. That is how I mentally survived the abuse, without going insane.
I write this because I have been carrying it for years. You need to hear it, understand it, realize this is my story.
And I will keep writing. You will hear the horrible things I've been through, as well as the good things.
Just you wait. I still have words spinning around my head. I still have more to tell you.
*******
Albert was the special education teaching assistant for fourth and fifth graders. And he was quite old. I think this was his second job. He had gray thinning hair and a gray beard. He always treated me very kindly.
When I would act badly in class due to my anxiety, he was the one who would pull me out and take me into a spare, windowless office that I called the "Little Room." There he gave me fun, creative assignments instead of my usual dull busywork.
The Little Room was my safe place. The quietness and seclusion calmed me down, and having Albert there gave me a sense of safety. I liked how he would massage my shoulders when I was stressed. I liked how he called me beautiful and stroked my cheeks. I liked how he smelled so clean and fresh. How his wrinkly, trembling hands were soft and warm.
I still remember the first time Albert fondled me. I was working on my long division. He leaned over me, hands on my shoulders, and guided me through each problem. I wore a pink tank top that day. It was very loose, such that if I moved a certain way my developing breasts would show.
As he told me the steps to complete the problem, his hands traveled to my arms. He began to stroke them gently. I liked the way it felt. I liked how he treated me, how he loved on me.
"I like your tank top. Mind if I adjust it?" he asked me.
"Go ahead."
His hands traveled to the inside of my tank top. I felt his hands brush my nipples. Then his hands cupped my breasts. I could hear his breathing become unsteady.
These, I knew, were my private parts. I had never had anyone touch them, especially not a teacher. I felt embarrassed, exposed. But I liked him. I trusted him.
He kissed my head and told me I was a sexy girl, but then he added, "Don't tell anyone about this or I will have to kill them."
*****
It got worse. It got so bad I hardly remember what happened. But I have flashbacks of him, stroking me all over my body, as I stood there naked, frozen, my clothes tossed all over the floor. He would lock the door. Nobody could get in, nobody ever tried.
I have one flashback that doesn't make sense to me. I see him pinning me down, moving inside of me. Ripping me apart with just his penis. It hurt, it hurt, it fucking hurt. And then I feel him cum. I hear him grunt, stand up, and say to me, "I wouldn't want to be in bed with you, that's for sure."
He began to get meaner, more withdrawn. He no longer helped me with my work, no longer gave me fun assignments. I did long division on my own, getting every problem wrong. I remember he called me a retard as he looked over my answers. "We've been over this so many times," he muttered, writing a big fat zero at the top of the page.
Then he would be nice all over again. He told me he loved me. He told me I was a beautiful girl with a beautiful, curvy body. I would fall in love with his pale blue eyes, his smile, his kindness.
Then he squeezed my butt and told me I was getting a little chunky.
But the good parts seemed to stick in my mind more than the bad parts.
*****
The abuse stopped when I got expelled. That's another story, though. Albert hurt me, but he also loved me, and I loved him.
It's called Stockholm Syndrome, therapists say to me. That means the victim feels positive feelings for their abuser, sometimes to the point of loving them. It is a survival strategy. That is how I mentally survived the abuse, without going insane.
I write this because I have been carrying it for years. You need to hear it, understand it, realize this is my story.
And I will keep writing. You will hear the horrible things I've been through, as well as the good things.
Just you wait. I still have words spinning around my head. I still have more to tell you.