Laying in pitch black. Eye focusing on the ceiling, the itty bitty white granules of blurred vision blur my pondering.

I try to pick the dirt out from under my nails, however they are too short to catch any.

The thought of that nightmare, which was in-fact reality stays impregnated in my brain, driving every last cell in my soul insane.

Blurry, yet clear, simple, yet complex, contradicting every moral concept known to man.

My brother. Not flesh-and-blood. But joined by the legal bonds of relationships.

My older brother. Is what I looked at him as. Step brother... brother. It's all the same.

Hotel room in Paris. Three separated beds. One his, next mine, then his mother plus my father.

Pitch black, eyes had been focusing on the ceiling, the itty bitty white granules of blurred vision had blurred my pondering. A poke to the gut was when my nightmare started.

Both awake, sleepless, joking around? If my blood brother had poked me in the gut... I would have poked back. My poke back was justified.

The gut became my chest. With awkwardness arising in my throat I laid on my stomach and tucked my hands under my belly and shut my eyes.

The pokes turned into gropes. Gropes to pulls. Pulls to clenches.

Suddenly the silhouette of the one-man-bed, turned into a low budget romance scene made in a cellar basement for the scums of society.

Objecting, claiming and confessing my love for my new boyfriend, who was then a million miles too far, I was overruled.

I had only kissed twice before. Hadn't even gotten to touch my first boyfriend. The uncleanliness of his hands reaching where no man had ever reached before; pushes on the skull that had never been pushed before. The feeling of violation that has never been felt before. All the new emotions I was too young to bare; overwhelmed myself with self pity and blame. I was too weak to challenge the clench. I was too weak to support my thoughts with actions. And was too ashamed to admit he was wrong.

The next mourning, sitting in front of him on a boat ride between my father and his mother, I turned back to ask if he has ever experienced a dream where it was so vivid it was almost reality. He chuckled said yes, took a walk to the upper level of the boat. I followed him as a curious little sister would, chuckling to myself at what a silly nightmare I had probably had. He turned around, swore and asked why I was following him.

I rushed back to my place.

However, the next night, as our parents left to mingle in the romantic city of Paris, I was left alone with him. I had a reoccurring nightmare, however it was reality, both nights. Ashamed of his actions, I denied the un-consensual actions of the memories. Portrayed myself as the wrong doer, kept the image in my mind that it was me, just as much him.

Now, two years later, staring up at my ceiling at two AM, I no longer blame myself. I no longer lie to myself that it was consensual. For it was not, it was rape.