Dear Journal…

Dear journal,

I met my rapist today.

He was across the hall from me, walking about, shaking hands and greeting all members of the church. Everyone looked at him in admiration, love and respect.

If only they knew the devil he was.

He is a shining star in the church, the pillar of the community. Father of two lovely girls that were undercover prostitutes, and husband to a wife that almost all the men and women in this same church can draw a well detailed map of the interior of her vagina.

I stood and watched him, my breath coming in short, hard pants. I tried to get myself under control, lest I alarm my mother. I would hate to do that. More for my benefit than hers.

I had told her all those years ago what had transpired. She didn’t believe me. She called me possessed. She said a man of God of his caliber and standing, touched and anointed by God and all of heaven wouldn’t dare touch a “miserly looking child” such as myself.

I had had nightmares, I would wake up in a pool of my own sweat, kicking and screaming, and having no one to talk to. Again, she had called me possessed, and had taken me back to this same church. To this same man of God. He had asked her to excuse us.

She did.

And right there, he pushed me over his table, and forcefully had his way with me again…while his huge hand covered my mouth and nose so hard I couldn’t breathe. All I could was look at his face as it contorted in twisted desire as he forced his way into me again, and again, and again. I cried and begged with my eyes. My silent voice begging some higher power to descend and help me. As soon as the thought entered, it disappeared. If a higher power was present. One who knew good and evil, why would that power allow this to happen to me?!

He would tell my mother to bring me to church every Friday night and come pick me up the next morning.

“The demon inside her is too strong. It doesn’t want to leave!!!”

My mother’s mouth will open wide, and she will throw theatrics. And then she would leave her only child in the hands of her rapist. This happened so much that I got numb to it.

He would call me to his office, and I would just go there, and lift my skirts. Turn my face away, and let him have his way with me while he called me all sorts of disparaging names. At some point, I began to believe that it was actually my fault. Else, why would a man older than my father want to have sex with me?

I closed my eyes, and gathered myself. The process taking more than usual. My heart rate picked up again when I heard my mother loudly greet the “man of God”. I opened my eyes just in time to see her kneel and greet him. I kept silent and lowered my eyes to the ground.

I felt my mother’s elbow jam into my ribs, and I winced and looked up. He was looking at me. He had an evil glint in his eyes. It was like a silent message was being passed. Like he was trying to say that he remembers everything he did to me…and he wanted to do more.

His eyes trailed my form, from my laid frontal wig on my head, down to the red toenails on my dainty feet. He wasn’t just looking at me. He undressed me. He stripped me naked right there and violated me again. All of that with just his eyes.

It’s been 15 years, and I still remembered vividly every detail that transpired between us. In that moment I wondered how many girls before me. I wondered how many girls after me. I broke his gaze and looked around the church, searching the faces of the girls to see if anything would give them away.

I looked back at the pastor. Truly looked at him. I wondered the joy he derived from inflicting such pain. Even at his age, I could swear that he hasn’t stopped. His hair had almost turned gray, and he was still at it.

In that moment, more than anything, I wanted to kill him. I took some odd form of comfort imagining him on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Begging for mercy as I repeatedly stabbed him over and over with the sharp end of a pen. I closed my eyes and took a deep breathe.

“Ada…you’ve grown…” His voice was raspy, and I couldn’t help but cringe. I couldn’t take it.

I couldn’t be here…

I turned around, and left the church, leaving my mother with her pastor. She had chosen him over me anyway. The only reason why she didn’t think I was possessed anymore was because I was now bringing in money enough to cater to her and her women leader lifestyle. There was no reason for me to put up with this torture.

I walked out of the church, and made a deliberate decision to leave everything that caused me pain behind.

Dear journal, I was 12…