1media/dc4c1a22-48d9-41c9-9503-06ac21482ccb.jpg2015-12-10T18:25:16-08:0011 Years Old6plain2015-12-13T21:41:34-08:00 Main Street is packed for the Fourth of July parade. Frightened by the manic crowd, I frantically search for my older sister. I find her friends instead, varsity football players, who claim that my sister is already on the way to one of their homes. When we arrive at the tiny trailer, someone hands me a two-liter bottle and dares me to drink. The boys are rough and vulgar and the alcohol only lubricates their juvenile testosterone. A tall boy, with perfect hair pulls out a gun and starts waving it around. The boys shoot holes in the wall; they fire at empty beer cans. Growing bored, one boy decides on a new game and places the barrel of the gun near my left eye. As they play Russian roulette on my temple, I think of how much the tall boy looks like Joy’s Ken doll. “Be nice to the boys.”
My father’s lessons echo through my mind as they pull me to the piss stained mattress in the back corner. Five boys take turns, cheering each other on and high-fiving as they steal my virginity. They bruise and scar my flesh with stains my sister will never be able to scrub away.
Hours later, my father will not look at me. He tells my sister to take me to the doctor - slams the door on the way out. After that summer, my father and I never speak again. No one confronts the boys. My lessons are never mentioned. Eventually, the bruises fade. The scars do not.
