My Molester

He used my hair against me.

 

He slipped in behind me; I heard the door close.

Panic.

I turned. He was panting, predatory, anticipatory. He lunged for me.

I recoiled. The backs of my knees buckled against the toilet. I sat involuntarily, my body violently shaking.

He thrust his greedy fist into my beautiful hair.

Distended, burl knuckles twisted my hair. I was trapped in his powdery, cracked vise. His skin reeked of fish. Reeked of garlic.

 

He used my hair against me.

 

Pulling me to him, he pushed me down. Filth bit into my bare knees.

The reeking, scaly twin, the one not ensnared in my hair, tore furiously at the button, yanked down the zipper.

He panted. He held me low.

Blinded. I didn’t get a breath first, now I couldn’t.

Blinded, my face rammed flush against him. I didn’t know. I didn’t get a breath.

United on my head, two fists in my beautiful hair. Bound, trapped.

 

He used my hair against me.

 

I shook.

I have never passed out before. I might now. I might.

He ground against my face… left. Right. Left. Right.

My head he held in place. Viciously rigid.

Rancid. The odor, rancid. I might throw up. I might.

Released, air rushed into my body. I pushed against his knees.

He reestablished his grip.

 

He used my hair against me.

 

I shook.

He panted.

Crushed again and again against his lumpy, vile smelling, absent erection.

I gagged. I shook.

He ground. I cried. He panted. I shook. I gagged. I pushed against his knees.

He panted he panted he panted.

He released my hair, he released me. I found my feet under quaking knees. I flung open the door. I ran. I ran I ran.

 

He used my hair against me.

 

I was twelve years old.