bring you peace, even though I would happily be condemned to Hell for my sin. For you. For I love you, my daughter.”
She knew. She knew of the appalling acts that were approaching, and tried to save me from becoming the next victim of the torture that had become her everyday life.
My mother tucked the knife under my pillow before lying next to me, pulling me close to her chest so we could fall asleep. “Vita Mia, if one of your fathers ever tries to lie here with you, you are to take this knife and sink it into his stomach.”
I gasped. I had never raised a hand to a father, nor had I ever been physically close to one.
“I know,” she patted my head, “but you need to promise me.”
Scared and so confused, I vowed to use the blade.
I think she secretly hoped the disobedience would anger a father to the point he would kill me in rage. I think she hoped they would snuff out my life, where she couldn’t.
When I was much older, there would be many a time I would be angry at her moment of weakness, wishing that blade would have taken me from this earth…
Soon after that, my fathers took Isabella Giordano from our room and never brought her back to me. I cried for her. I cried so long, I believe it’s all I did for days and days…
I was surprised by the smell of a father as he crawled into bed with me, waking me from slumber. His breath was sharp to my delicate nose. His weight was so much more than my mother’s. His touch lacked her gentleness.
Never having hurt anyone before, or even seen a movie to know how hard to stab with a knife, I barely punctured his skin. I was so young, and so inexperienced. How was I supposed to know how to be violent?
After that, everything as I knew it tumbled away. Just like my innocence as it was stolen by the very same father. Two of us bled on that bed that night.
How do grown men find gratification in sexual encounters with little girls? I don’t think I will ever have that answer. Fortunately, not all of the fathers were interested in me at such a young age. With the couple that were, I quickly surrendered to them because the pain was much less when I didn’t resist.
After being physically hurt, my childhood swing set felt different the next time I was allowed to be outside. I was too inexperienced to understand what was happening, but everything around me felt altered. It was almost as if, even though sexual abuse was common practice, due to what I had witnessed my mother endure all my life, deep down, my heart still knew something was wrong. Idaho’s mountains seemed farther away, as if the rest of the world I had heard about was fading from my memory. The tall grass around me no longer looked like a shield, but a promise of a grim future to come. An alternate future was inconceivable since I knew nothing else.
More children and women appeared in the house from time to time. I could hear cries and sometimes screams while I huddled in my bed. I even shared my mattress when some kids were tossed into my room, until they, too, were taken away and never returned. Just like my mother.
I don’t know what changed, or why I was soon no longer being taken out of my room, but I never saw my swing set again. Nor was I ever able to be outside of the dilapidated home. In fact, there would only be a number of times that I would see beyond my bedroom. Then my end would come, once and for all.
Eventually, I lost more things I would sorely miss. As my body grew and could no longer fit into my little girl clothing, I was offered no new clothes. Soon in a constant state of nakedness, and no longer with children in my room, my only visitors were more fathers.
As I developed, so did their hunger.
It’s sad, but I was so lonely, I wished they would talk to me as they used my body. They didn’t. At least nothing as wonderful as my mother’s stories, that is. Here and there, I would get foul words shared, such as, “Ah shit, that feels so fucking good,” or, “Oh yeah, this tight little hole is just what I needed after my