Hell On Earth: A Story of Violation

By Lia Star

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Disclaimer: I own this entire thing. Nothing belongs to anyone else.

A/N: I wrote this because I was inspired by my Women's Studies class. We're currently studying Sexual Violence Again Women. It's a very strong topic out there people, and I just had to write this. For those of you who are waiting for the next chapter of A Love That Defies Reason, I'll have it out soon hopefully. Hope that you all like this story, despite the content. Don't forget to review!!!

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Just the thought of someone coming into my room, invading my personal space, annoyed the hell out of me. Then again, now it doesn't seem to matter all that much. I mean, when you've experienced the ultimate invasion of personal space, a small matter of someone coming in your room without your permission doesn't seem to be that big of a deal, now does it?

I never once thought that it could happen to me...I mean, who ever does. The general opinion of this world, is that "Oh, it can't happen to me". And that's what we continue to believe...until it actually does happen to us. Rape. I never noticed before now, how ugly that word it. It brings with it so much pain and hate...bad memories and even worse feelings. How someone could put up with something like that, baffles me, and yet...I do. I have for a long time.

It all started when I was only about six. Still rather young, and one of my favorite past times being reading. I always was a book worm. It wasn't often that a person managed to catch me without my nose in a book. And it wasn't just those little kiddy books that normal kids my age read. No, it was those huge books. Jane Austin, Edgar Allen Poe, Shakespeare. Various famous authors. I had always been curious as to why they became famous for their writings. Were they good? Did they make sense? At first, they didn't make sense to me. Not surprising, seeing as I was only a ten year old child. But, as I read more and more of them, I got to better understand them.

I got to understand them, but yet, I didn't. I related more to the content in Poe's works, than I did in some of Shakespeare's. And yet, despite that, I still continued to read them. So, I guess, in a way, those books, plays, poems...everything I read, contributed to what it was that happened to me. No one noticed me. I was essentially invisable to my family, to people around me. So, when my uncle decided to take it upon himself to teach me the true meaning of real fear, it surprised me.

I wasn't ignorant to the subject of rape. Not a bit. Like I said, I've read a lot. But, to have it actually happen to myself...well...I was shocked. It had never once occured to me that it would ever happen to me. I was only six. When I'd read about it, it always happened to teenagers and older women. Frankly, I was scared. For the first time that I could recall, I was truly, actually frightened.

It happened when my parents had gone out of town. They had decided that they needed some "time off" from being parents, so they'd left me with my uncle, who had more than willingly taken me in for the weekend. I didn't know why at that time, but I soon realized afterwards.

He had always been nice to me, never once making any derogeratory remarks towards me and my pention for reading rather than doing "normal" things kids my age did. So, everything was normal, up until my parents dropped me off at his house. At first, he was just kind, like always. Which I rather liked, I must admit. But, when he started touching me more than he usually did around my parents, well, it confused me. Did he consider me to be his favorite niece out of the six of us? Did he like me more than the others? The boys?

Apparently so. If only I had known just how much he did like me, then I would never have stayed there. I would have left that house immediately. But, despite what I'd read, I was naive.

So, like I said, everything was normal up until the time that I usually took my bath before going to bed. Now, before, my mother would have helped me, against my wishes I might add. I was certainly old enough to wash myself without adult supervision. I had always caught on quick. The people that my parents had taken me to said that I'd had an abnormally high IQ for such a small child. But, when my uncle insisted on helping with my bath, claiming that my mother wouldn't like it if I had bathed without supervision, there was nothing I could do. So, I allowed him to help. Not that there was much I could really say about the fact, seeing as I was only a child of six at the time.

So, he'd helped me undress for the bath, ran the water and even added those bubbles for me, which I'd always loved. But, when he started washing me, well, I felt awkward. It wasn't like what my mother used to do. He washed me differently than she did. He always lingered in areas that my mother had always told me that I wasn't supposed to show anyone else. It made me uncomfortable, and when I protested, he stopped, but I never forgot that moment, when he had his hands where they shouldn't have been.

He didn't touch me anymore like that the entire weekend, and I took the rest of my baths alone, with the door closed. Everything was normal from that day on, until my mother picked me up on Monday morning. But, it didn't remain that way.

My father got a new job that required him to travel a lot, and sometimes my mother went with him, again leaving me with my uncle, despite my protests that I didn't want to stay with him. I really didn't want to stay with him, but I was given little choice in the matter. I didn't have any other relatives in the area at the time, and I was only small, so there was really nothing that I could do.

Things got worse. The touches started again, only this time, there was more. He made me promise that I wouldn't tell anyone what he did, saying that he was just "playing a game" with me. I'd believed him at the time, but I see my mistake now. Most of the touches I wouldn't mind. The hugs, the hand holding while walking down the street. That was normal and I liked the attention. But the other touches...touches to places that I knew even then he shouldn't be touching, was what started to scare me. But, it wasn't until he forced me to start touching him that I finally realized what might be going on.

It had been during one such instance that I finally got up the guts to refuse to touch him, or to let him touch me. By that time I was ten years old. I knew what was happening was wrong. That it wasn't a game at all. But, I guess I should have seen it coming. He didn't like the fact that I'd refused him, when for the years previous, I'd always done what he'd asked without much complaint.

He'd gotten angry. The result was something that I have never forgotten. Rape...the ugliest word in the enlish language. I'd dared to refuse him, refuse to be his little play toy, and because of it, I was violated. Invaded. Raped.

It was not a pleasent experience. Not that it would have been had I been older, but a ten year old feels things like that in a more intense fashion than someone of the age I am now. A ten year old's body isn't meant to endure that sort of stress. It's really no wonder that I passed out a few minutes into the act. I'm thankful for that at least. I knew that I wouldn't be able to fight him off. A ten year old wouldn't be able to fight off someone almost four times their age. It would be impossible. But, I didn't have the pleasure of unconsciousness the numerous times that he did it afterwards.

I've lost count how many times it's happened to me now. I always try to fight him, but he's so much more stronger than me. There was only one time that I managed to get away from him briefly, but I paid dearly for it. He'd blackened my face, then, when my parents came to pick me up, claimed that I'd gotten into a fight with a neighbouring kid. And, they bought it. My own parents bought his bullshit. I already knew better than to try telling on him. I'd tried once before, years ago, but my mother had scolded me for telling lies, saying that it was mean to tell lies about people, especially your family members when they love you. I had been tempted to scoff at that. Love me indeed. I didn't think so.

So, I endured. And I still endure. It's been almost ten years since that first incident. Ten, hellish years of torture of the worst kind. And the ironic part is, no one will believe me now. Why would they? Because of him, I turned to drugs. The only escape that I've managed to find from him. At least when I'm high on whatever drug that I can get my hands on, I don't have to dwell on the thought that I have to deal with him. I can escape to whatever illusion that my mind wants to bring up when he touches me. No...not touch...touch implies that it's a loving thing...the word is rape. When he rapes me, I don't even know it. I'm always gone. Only my body stays behind...but I'll get rid of that too soon. What is the point of staying behind in this hell that I've been forced to endure, just because an uncle that I had thought to trust turned out to be one of the worst kind of people there are? So yes. Soon I will find a permanent escape from this torture. Soon I won't have to endure his...his...degradation. But, at least I might be able to find the happiness that I lost when I was only six. At least, maybe, I'll get back my innocence.

The End.