Trust and Faith.

Ever wonder why little ole black women cling to Jesus? Because their kids are in the ghettos and he’s the only one that’s gonna save ‘em.

 

I was twelve years old and had just gotten into a fight with my family. My mother was done, and my brother was an a*s. My sister enjoyed the fight and looked on from the side as if all that she lacked was a bucket of popcorn. My mother decided to leave briefly to do a bit of grocery shopping, her plan being to reward my brother and sister and leave me without an ice cream because of my bad behavior. The moment she disappeared behind the automatic doors of Farmer Jacks, I jumped out of the car and began my trek home. My brother and sister yelled from the car that I would be in, “so much trouble” unless I returned. My ears were shut and my mind was defiant. I walked. It was forty miles back to the house, give or take.

I knew the freeway very well and chose this as my route. It was early in the day maybe around ten in the morning, and the heat blazed on my back. My annoyance had pounded itself onto the cement and sweat began to collect on my skin. My hurried step had slowed to a steady tread.

I had gotten pretty far. The cops say maybe ten miles. But that wasn’t the point. And this is where those that are of faint heart will turn the page to read another story. A brown and tan stripped van had seen me walking. The owner was hefty with a rough scruffy face that hadn’t been shaven in approximately 2 days. It wasn’t the facial hair that softens with length, but rather the stiff hair that pricks the skin when touched. His balding hair was unmanaged and left his head for his torso and arms. His legs were squatty and short. He wore jeans and sneakers and a billowing shirt with a print of some sort that never seared its way into my memory. His belly covered his zipper making the contraption difficult to tear at. I know these things because he grabbed me on my walk of the freeway and forced me in as his passenger.

I was pinned between the seats of his chair and the clothed and emptied passenger chair to his right. He outweighed me by two hundred pounds. I was immobile as he forced my left arm between the weight of his back and cushioned chair. His arm rest had been moved upwards flush with the chair to clear room. His harried and quick breath began to slow to a calm rhythm and the pink hue in his cheeks dulled to a pale peach. His sweaty arm gripped the right side of my face locking me against his fatty flesh as his engorged palm covered my mouth forcing the squeals inside of me to subside. He turned off the freeway into a residential neighborhood and began to hunt for a quiet place. My arm behind his back began to ache as he applied more weight to adhere my struggling body. My tears moisturized his dry hand covering my face.

Calmly he spoke, “I’m going to release you now. If you scream or make a sound I’m going to kill you. Look behind you. Do you see the tools in the back of this van? I will f**k you and kill you if you scream. I’ll dump your body in a dumpster just like the other little girl. They won’t find you. Do you agree to behave?” He looked down at me with his melted eyes, heat laden and drenched in sweat. I nodded fiercely and my contorted face spoke the truth. Slowly he began to release the pressure of his arm, cautious if I were to betray the bond we had just signed. My fear was great and he knew he had my complete will at his command. And then it began.

The disgust towards the abhorrent brute on my left didn’t kick in until after the ache in my jaw from sucking his flaccid wrinkled penis came around. We had been driving for hours and his want was for me to give him a blow job. Pulling out that pinched off piece of flesh, barely credible to call itself a fully functioning member of his body, he told me to put his penis in my mouth and to suck on it like a sucker. He then instructed me to continue this action until something came out. I didn’t know what would come out of his penis, except urine, and asked him what he meant. He then explained what an ejaculation was to a twelve year-old little girl. I wasn’t allowed to stop until he knew that I had swallowed his cum entirely.

Fear commanded my senses and instinct took over. To live was to obey, and to obey was to trust. I proceeded with his wish. As this went on, he then took liberties with my body pulling down my jeans and cotton underwear, the type with tiny flowers covering every square inch. He decided it would please him to finger my vagina until his dick spewed forth into my face.

I vomited in confusion of the penis’s reaction onto his hairy lap. He asked if I had swallowed any of it, and recalling his threat of making me do it again unless I had, I lied and told him yes. Pleased he let my arm go so that I could pull up my pants. I believe he was a bit disgusted with the entire scenario. But now what next?

In recent years I have thought little of this part of my life. It was an evening I choose not to recall for obvious reasons. Yet, it tumbled back to my vivid mind after hearing of something that happened to a seven year-old girl in a Midwestern town’s apartment complex. She was kidnapped from a playground and found dead in one of her apartment’s dwellings. It seems a maintenance worker had seen her and snatched her up as an easy target. He then proceeded to violate her young body to his will. Once the act was completed he then thought of turning her loose and running for the hills, so to speak. Sadly, she asked to go to the bathroom to wash her body. It was then, with this small precious amount of time that the sadistic pig had a moment to fully think his plans through. He then realized it was necessary to kill her and rid the possibility of being caught. The girl’s mother was given the discarded remains of her daughter only days later.

I mention this because it wasn’t until recently that I grasped the immense reality that I could have had my last hours on earth in that van. We were miles from my home with no one following us. I remember because when he dropped me off on my front porch (insurance that I wouldn’t talk), it was nearing the midnight hour that my mother began yelling at me confused as to, “Where the hell I’d been.” I had been in his van since two that afternoon.

This is what saved me, and please pay attention. Do note I’m not a Bible-thumping-member-of-the-Westminster-Baptist-Church-pray-to-the-Lord-with-all-your-might-if-you’re-not-a-Christian-you’re-going-to-rot-in-hell-for-all-eternity kind of a person. But. I. Had. Faith. Man it feels good to recognize that one! Okay, here’s what you can laugh at or scoff at after the gut-wrenching ordeal described above: I shocked the s**t out of this guy! Not literally because that would have been awful for my gut to ingest as my tongue was pretty much glued to this guy’s mangled shaft for quite some length of time. But, I did. He was shocked and didn’t know what the eff hit him.

Picture it if you will, you’ve got this crazed little image of a twelve year-old girl. I’m a ragamuffin at this age; wild hair never brushed, shoe laces untied, dirty knees from too many scuffs, and watchful eyes. You’d think, random little girl, nothing much to offer yet. Here’s the kicker, I carried a pocket Bible around with me. Maybe not a big deal to some of you, but if you think about it, it’s kind of weird and a bit out of place. Imagine you’ve just committed a vile and atrocious sin, and that at one point you were maybe a fairly conscientious thoughtful human being. All of a sudden just after having committed the deed and knowing you’ve just screwed yourself a Bible is put right in front of you. I’m fairly convinced that was all that separated me from a dumpster dive into Heaven.

I had him place the same rotting piece of flesh bitten hand that clamped my mouth shut and forced my head against his side on my Bible and swear he wouldn’t hurt me. He was stunned. Silence. Remorse. The man didn’t burst into fervent tears rushing to the altar to confess his mortal sins, yet he was stunned. That horrid, potentially arthritic hand that had just finished stroking the labia of a twelve year-old, covered the Bible, while his dried mouth promised an oath. He then told me to do the same in that I wouldn’t tell. I did and he took me home.

I never really knew why I carried that group of pages with a green leather cover. Never knew why they comforted me so much as a child. I mean, I wasn’t reading it; I just had it with me. Perhaps God knew better and I just obeyed by keeping him nearby. My overarching theme here is to have trust. Trust in your faith, and have faith to trust. Why does it have to be so hard?

 

This is a true story. This happened to me when I was 12 years-old. In the exact precise detail I showed. I am writing this at 31 years of age. And I remember. But I have forgiven.