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thatbluewoman

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I can’t say it was great thing. But hiding my emotions was one of my best talents. And that’s gotta count for something, considering how little else I can do. I mean, sure, I could cook, do the laundry, clean houses until they’re gleaming. I can do a lot of things, but it had never been for myself. Hiding my emotions, keeping them at bay for a long time–that helped me survive my family for the first fourteen years of my life.

No one at school knew anything about what went on at home. I didn’t have any friends. The teachers, sure, they knew me. I was an outstanding student. The best grades, very participant, class rep., the works. But the teachers only knew the me who always had a cheerful smile pasted on my face.

I can fake blinding, joyful smiles, but inside I’d be completely outraged, and no one would suspect a thing. I could play the role of a girl who had nothing that could faze her perfectly. No one knows the real me, the one who cries herself to sleep every night, the one who never had a mother or father, or even any real loving siblings.

My stepbrother raped my again last night.

It’s not unusual or anything. He’s been doing it about two or three times a week, ever since I was eleven. I’ve never told anyone. My foster parents know very well, because they walked in on us once, but it’s not like they’re gonna do anything about it. Reputation and saving face, I think, but it’s probably because they don’t care. Not surprising, since they hit me all the time, drunk or not.
            The first time he raped me, I had been lying in my bed, underneath ratty, thin covers, staring blankly at the ceiling. It’s okay, he had sneered as he unzipped his pants, you aren’t saving your virginity for anyone. No one would want you anyway, whore. He raped me twice before leaving my room. I had lain in bed, tearful and broken, physically and mentally. I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t.

            I thought of it, at times of building desperation. My student counselor, Ms. Kiles, always seemed to be there whenever I felt fit to burst out in tears of frustration, or just to plain scream and yell in anger and anguish. Maybe punch a wall and hit a passing stranger.

But no, I would hold it in, of course, and walk right past her with eyes glaring straight ahead, arms stiff, and pissed body language. I couldn’t tell anyone my problems, no matter what.