I suddenly remembered several things. One, my first post in regards this abysmal tale was of its soundtrack….

The bold lettering stating that nothing is amiss is the overwhelming stanza throughout the narration.

The first image of a green room and slightly suspicious face of mine echoes of the first suspicion that something isn’t quite right.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…

And then, according to the painting, there’s a THUMP.

And I kinda sorta think/ask “Huh?” Which carries undertones of the haunting sing song of a mother singing a lullaby that goes like this:

Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

and never mind that noise you heard,

it’s just the beast under your bed,

in your closet, in your head!

Oh, but there’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing wrong with what’s happening. It’s all in my head, I’m really safe in my bed.

“Little pig, little pig, let me come in!”

And I doubt the truth. Surely I’m not the only one awakened at night by strange noises. A voice that doesn’t belong in a language I shouldn’t hear in my home.

(As a side note, I’d studied Spanish since high school and knew enough to understand enough to know that it was a fluent tongue invading my home and my ears with its filth…)

And now let us segue to the current image of two monsterly hands ripping through the screen or paper or sheet once thought solid and secure, ripping it like tissue, tearing apart my security, my safety, as if it t’were nothing…

“I BE ONE O’ THE BEASTIES WHAT GOES BUMP IN THE NIGHT!”

Not to brag, but it was indeed a beast against the beauty. And he did more than make bump noises. He shook my whole belief system and rattled my world in the worst of ways.

While my family was gone. While my father, my protector, was away.

I’m not going to elaborate on the morbid details. There are enough movies these days that showcase rape where one may get their johnnies off. They don’t need me to feed the pile of trash.

I will tell you that most people only ask of one’s story and delve for details with the pretense of concern. They don’t care about how one’s innocence was ripped away, along with their gag reflex. They only care about reimagining and getting off on someone else’s horror. For those of ya’ll who thrive on the dregs of my memories, there’s a name for you and I’m too much of a lady to say it.

Yet there’s nothing wrong with me.