The window

His office had a window. Nothing fancy. Just a square piece of glass with brown curtains. His office was on the second story, the first room at the top of the stairs. In it were all his mementos of military service, plaques on the wall announcing what a superb human being he was, a desk that was neat but not clear, as if to show that he was important but not overwhelmed. Along the far wall was his couch bed, directly under the window. I would stare out this window, into the blue sky, drifting, lost, and imagine that the clouds floating by would let me hitch a ride to wherever it was they were going. Anyplace other than where I was. You see, every time I looked out this window, I was flat on my back.

Well, every time but one.

"Let's go take a nap." This was his code, his inside joke if you will. He'd sit and look at me, waiting for me to ask where we were taking our nap? What a sick fuck. So manipulative. As if me asking where we were going implied I wanted to. As if I had a choice. As if I could say no. It was always either their bedroom or his office.

This particular day I went up the stairs, sat on the couch bed, and waited. I was nervous this time. Not because this was the first time or the second time or even the fifth time. No, I was used to this already. I knew the drill. I was nervous because we weren't alone. I didn't understand how we were going to "nap" without being seen. Perhaps it was this incomprehension on my part that allowed me to speak up this day. Part of me thought that maybe he forgot we weren't home alone (although I didn't get how he didn't already know that) and so maybe I would be granted a last minute reprieve when I reminded him of this. I guess some part of me thought he would smack himself on the forehead as if to say, "My word! What was I thinking?!" We'd both chuckle a little and then I could leave. I felt......hopeful.

Silly, stupid girl.

He came in and began to unhook his belt. My confusion grew. My hands sweat ed. I remember gripping the blanket, rubbing my thumbs back and forth over the material. Back and forth, back and forth, oh my God, oh my God. He looked at me and told me to take my pants off. I was frozen. What? We weren't alone.

I told him I didn't want to. I told him we couldn't. Not today. He took his belt off and looked at me. "And why not?" he asked. I fumbled, stuttered, stammered, gripped the blanket, and then looked out the window. He followed my gaze and looked down into the backyard with me.

My brother was playing in the leaves with their dog, Mickey.

He leaned over, his face just inches from mine,looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. Not a happy smile. Not a comforting smile. Not an "oops - I goofed up" smile. No, it was a smile that reeked and dripped of slime and horror. An eager smile. My stomach knotted and became queasy. I started breathing hard. His smile grew.
He could tell I didn't get it yet.

"But......????"

"Well now, we're going to do this right now. We need to be quick." Then he looked back out at my brother and back to me. "You don't want me to go get him..... do you?"

Then he just stared at me and patiently waited for me to answer.
Sick fuck.

I stared back. I stared at the lines on his face. Deep grooves, valleys that gave the illusion of wisdom and comfort. I stared at his gray hair. I stared at his glasses. I stared at everything that showed he was my grandpa. Then I looked down and stared at his pants. They were already undone. He was already out.

It's amazing how the mind works. I'm not a pysch major or highly educated. But yes, I know how the mind grasps for a way to cope in order to stay sane and retain the ability to think and function. It was almost like I could feel my mind doing this. Situating itself, creaking, turning this way and that, so that I wouldn't go mad. And yet, still, at eight years old, make a decision to sacrifice myself however was necessary, all while staring at his thing.

It was at that moment that I became my brother's protector. I didn't hesitate. My brother was two years younger than me. Only six. At eight I knew that I would never, ever, want him to live through what I was doing and what was being done to me. Wasn't it bad enough this was happening to me? But to know my little brother would be next if I didn't try stop it, well, that was an easy choice. If someone could have prevented it from being done to me, I would hope they would have.

I almost threw up. But I didn't. I just cried. Silent, hot tears of defeat and courage ran swiftly down my face. It was when he kissed my face, kissed the very tears that he caused, that my throat broke open and i began gasping for air. Trying to stop crying, Trying to be quiet, trying now to get it over with so that i could go back downstairs to where my brother was playing. I was hysterical and desperate..... and then I was silent because I heard him.

The glass slider had opened and then closed. My brother yelled out my name.

He got off me and pulled up his pants. He yelled down to my brother, "We'll be right there. Just a second." But my brother was six. He didn't wait. I heard him running to the stairs and start to come up.

I knew I needed to move quickly but I felt like I was drugged. I couldn't move fast enough. He threw my panties at me and told me to get dressed. I'll never forget the way he looked at me or how his voice sounded when he said it. Like he was repulsed by me. Like I had done something that disgusted him. Like I was the twisted one.

My brother was almost to the top of the stairs.
He went out of the room and laid down on the landing so my brother couldn't see that his pants were still undone. And then, to my horror, he pushed my brother back down the stairs. He pretended like it was a joke, like he was playing with him. He laughed. I heard my brother yell out and fall back down.
I felt near hysterical again. It was my fault. It was my fault that he had been pushed. I wasn't fast enough getting my clothes on. I wasted too much time crying like a baby. And now my brother was at the bottom of the stairs. It was all my fault.

I got my pants on and I ran out of the room, past him, and down the stairs. I asked my brother if he was ok and told him I was sorry. He came down and told my brother not to cry like a baby and then he went to his room.

My brother doesn't know that happened. I never told him. It would only hurt him if he knew. The way I see it, there has been enough pain. Pain that has nowhere to go. It sits. I've learned to live with it, to manage it. It sucks. Why pass it on?

From that day forward, I have always been the one that has stood by my brother. I would step in front of a bullet for him if I thought it would save him. Like a mama bear protecting her cub.

Except.... I'm not his mama. I'm just his sister. His mama, our mama, was unable and unwilling to protect us. She could have. She should have. But she didn't.