photo by Patricia
And then there were three. When facing the demons of my past brothers were no longer called brothers. Those siblings lost that right. But the three who didn’t sexually attack me, those could be loved, couldn’t they?
But why? Why Seth, when as a child the words came out, “Danny fucked me,” you did nothing, said nothing, only looked at me with a face of horror. As a child my mind perceived that horror to be me.
Why Donny, did you come to the bath when my teary screams shrilled out as the water touched my vagina with a searing hot burning pain? You turned away, left, did nothing, said nothing. Why?
Why did you both do nothing? You dated, joined football, went to parties, lived your teenage lives, most it elsewhere besides in that house, and left me to the wolves. Why?
My 65th birthday comes in a month and the question is finally asked, not in person, but rhetorically, because those two are loved from afar and I do love them. But no intimate closeness exists and rare interaction of any kind.
All this time, all these decades, the question loomed unasked telling myself they were just teenagers and the blame is not theirs. Yes it is. Mother, and them, and the aunt down the road. As the school nurse she also did nothing when she knew except criticize my weight during yearly physicals after my skinny kid body blew up like a balloon.
Why to the people who stand by and do nothing. Your cowardly inaction is as grievous as the assaults. The little girl lived alone in a house of monsters. We couldn’t call them that, we were a family. The monsters in my dreams were once called brothers.