I was the youngest of three. My sisters very much older were already away at college. With several girl cousins near by and closer to my age, I never lacked for female company. The boy cousins were older, but very protective of their sisters and of me. Always coming to our defense when we were being teased or bullied. They were the ones who taught me how to look out for myself, but I always relied on them to be there for me.
One cousin, older by four or five years, was always around. He was the one who taught me how to fish, and play baseball. I followed him everywhere.
When I was little more than seven, he taught me something no child should know about. Then he threatened me, “if you tell you will never see your mother or father again, I will tell everyone it was your fault.”
Believing him, I was terrified. I could not sleep, became afraid of the dark, afraid of everything. My schoolwork suffered, and I also developed a dreadful temper. My parents did not suspecting for a moment what was really happening. They thought my behavior was due to grief for my grandfather, who had recently passed away.
For two more years the abuse went on, I tried to avoid him, but he always found me. Eventually when his family moved some distance away and he was in a new school, I was free of him.
During the next years I tried put those dreadful experiences out of my mind, but it was not an easy thing to forget. Finally things started going well for me, I was coping.
One day, when I was twelve or thirteen years old, it was all brought back. I had just returned home from playing tennis to find my little cousin in the garden sobbing. I sat next to her, she was crying so pitifully. Thinking that she had been hurt, I asked what had happened, wanting to comfort and help her. She refused to say, but only sobbed, “I wanna stay with Mumma and Dada.”
As we sat there, I noticed, someone hurrying toward the house. It was HIM.
“NO” I screamed. A white-hot rage engulfed me. My scream startled the little girl, and she started crying even harder.
All those memories came flooding back, those horrible memories. Surely he had not done the same to his little sister. As awful is it seemed, I knew he had
Grabbing my tennis racquet I ran to the house, wanting to kill him. This was going to end now. I knew that the only one who could stop it would be me. I had to tell. But before I did, he was going to have to face me.
Standing by the kitchen table, grinning, he showed no shame, or remorse. “You are ready for what will happen to you?” he taunted.
I swung my racquet, hoping to hit him with the frame. He ducked, and of course I missed. He laughed, still taunting me. “I thought I had taught you to swing better than that.”
This is not the way, a feeling of calm suddenly swept over me. This nightmare has to end, but hitting him is not the way. I turned toward him. Still grinning, he must have thought that once again he was the victor. I called out to my father, a man who we were all a little in fear of.
Hearing the panic in my voice daddy rushed into the kitchen, I spilled out my story quickly before fear could silence me. My cousin just stood there, ready to brazen it out, but as I told what I believed he had done to his sister, he began to pale and tremble.
Spluttering he tried to deny everything. My father was not hearing it, I was no longer afraid of what might happen to me, but what my father would do, his temper was legendry.
After my little cousin had been soothed, and put into bed, my parents took this monster to face his parents wrath and that of his older brothers.
While they were gone, the old fears came back. I still believed I could be sent away. Later as we talked about it, my parents reassured me that would never happen. They told me I was not the guilty one, but was very brave to finally tell.
It was the day I taught myself that the only one who was allowed to control my life would be me. My actions that day have made me a much stronger person. I still find it difficult to forgive my cousin for taking away his sisters and my childhood innocence.
I have never seen him again.
By Ann Brixey
