VagilantesPress offers publication for those who write about, or want to share their own story about child sexual abuse. Releasing such stories is an empowering step and an expression of strength. Do you have a story, or something to share? Contact us.
Two heart-touching items are published below.
NOW WE ARE SIX
by Nancy DeKlyn
The day before I was six my mother said I could no longer run naked through the sprinkler. That night I knelt beside my bed to say my prayers, hoping someone might answer, asking God to let me run naked through the sprinkler again. I had lost something precious and didn’t know why. I was being punished for something I didn’t know was wrong.
The woods behind our house filled my days with adventures and new discoveries; of daddy long-leg spiders and another bend in the creek to explore. There were the musky smells of leaves feeding the forest floor and sightings of Wake Robins white bloom against the deep green curtains of fat leaves and vines hanging from trees named Dogwood and Birch.
The forest was my kingdom and I was its princess. The older boys on bicycles who rode along the old wagon road were my knights; their bikes were shining steeds.
They brought their horses up short on the mossy wooden bridge when they saw me playing in the creek. “Hey, little girl.”
“I am not a little girl, I am the princess of this forest and you are my horsemen.”
“What are you doing down there, princess?” They laughed like boys do when they share a naughty joke. I didn’t like to be left out.
“Come see my captives.” I held up a jar of tadpoles to entice them down to the creek-bed. “I poked holes in the lid so they can breathe.”
They came down to the creek but didn’t look at the tadpoles. “Hey, your highness, pull down your pants for us, we’ve never seen the butt of a princess.”
The day I turned six I did as I was told. When their hands probed me I left my body there with them, flying up into the trees, and somewhat to the right, where I could watch what they did to the girl I left behind.
They laughed as they stuck something in her.
“What are you putting in me?” She cried.
“Don’t worry princess,” they laughed among themselves, “it’s just sticks.”
Why would my knights put sticks in her? Why would they laugh? Nothing made sense. I sat above it all, wondering why they needed to pull their pants down, too.
When I got home my mother was sitting where she always sat; in her chair at the kitchen table by the phone smoking cigarettes and making lists.
She drank gold colored grown-up juice over ice cubes that clinked against the sides of her glass, a sound I knew for a warning. On the list, her handwriting started out cramped and crisp then got sloppy and ran down the page, another bad sign. The ashtray was overflowing. Will it be safe to tell her now? Will she be mad? Right now she wasn’t on the phone. If I waited too long her handwriting would get so you couldn’t read it and the golden juice would get darker, and by then it would be too late.
I told her about the boys and the sticks.
“Boys will be boys.” My mother reached for her glass. She sounded like that made it OK what they did. I was confused.
“Go upstairs and clean yourself.” She poured more juice over new cubes, making them pop and snap, demanding her attention away from me.
The girl whispered, “There is something here you don’t understand.” We stood waiting for my mother to say something kind.
She sat where she always sat, in her chair at the kitchen table, near the phone. She took another Kool from the pack with the penguin on the back, and picked up her pen so she could go back to making her lists again. I hated how she held her cigarette like a precious child, caressing its smoke with her breath and how her eyes got dreamy and far away as she watched it curl and drift out of sight.
When she saw me still standing there, she said, “Go on, move.”
I was half way to my room at the top of the stairs when she yelled, “And whatever you do, do not tell your father. Do not ever tell your father.”
No, we won’t tell, I whispered to the girl, he’ll get mad, and you don’t even want to know what will happen then. My mother is protecting us from him. But it didn’t feel that way.
My favorite pink shorts were dirty where the boys ground them into the dirt while they played their stick game. I couldn’t remember how the t-shirt got torn. The bottom of my Tiger Lily underpants was streaked with blood. My belly ached. “Will we die?” I asked her. “What did they do?” I threw my bloodied panties into the trash and she helped cover them with crayon drawings in many colors of rainbows and bears and smiley faces I had made before I knew her.
“Now there are two of us,” I said, “And now we are six”
END – NEXT PIECE:
Emily (Amy) Pike is an exceptionally courageous woman who lives among and loves the children of Jamaica. She wrote Justice in Chains, a poem/song published below. Perhaps someday she will make a video of singing these words. If so, you can be sure we want to see it here.
Emily points to the lack of cultural protection that allows pedophiles to abuse without punishment. Read more about about what she sees on Vagilantes.com: A Vagilante Screams.
Among Emily’s concerns is the failure to implement legislation passed in 2010, intended to create a sexual offenders registry in Jamaica. A registry could also notify the public of child sexual offenders who are deported back to Jamaica after breaking CSA laws in other countries. Legislation which is not applied is worthless. Emily is not comforted by the phrase, “Soon come.”
Just scratching the surface of her one-world concerns is the fact that agencies like TSA screens for shampoo and such, but doesn’t stop registered sex offenders from taking pedophile-pleasure trips to other countries like Jamaica.
JUSTICE IN CHAINS
by Emily (Amy) Pike
Justice is a lady in chains here
Where monsters and molesters go free
And children have a reason to fear
That’s not the way it’s supposed to be
Sometimes it’s sad that even a mother can be bought
And the stacks of money make a boy’s cries ignored.
And a man can be freed who once was caught
And a rapist goes to rape again, good lord!
So while this predator roams free to hurt again
Warn the little ones to take care what taxi they get in
Because a battymon is free on the West End of Negril
Who will rape children until he’s had his fill.
Monsters who harm the littles ones
Don’t do it only once, but repeat their acts
Their reign of evil terror runs and runs
So spread the word and get out the facts
Some say vigilante justice is wrong
I say justice is crying and the children are bleeding
So ring the bell and sound the gong
Such heartbreak we need to stop feeding.
And this we do each time we turn away
Each time we deny what is right in our face
But lady justice is screaming today
And wants to be restored to her rightful place.