I dropped my dress on the floor with my socks and shoes. If I throw it just right the skirt fills with air and it drifts down slowly. I am so cold. It is so cold in here. I put the little blue paper gown on. Should the opening go in the front or the back? I don't know. I guess the back. It's warmer that way. I leave my underwear on. I don't like to take my underwear off. It's icky.

I wait. I'm cold. I want to go home. I'm alone. I'm afraid. I wait.

I hear the footsteps down the hall. I don't want him to come in here. He pulls the chart off the door. Papers rustle, the knob turns, the door slowly opens. "Are you ready?" he asks.

"I guess so," studying my toes rubbing against each other, unable to look at him.

"Good." Mumbling and nodding he reads the papers and flips them occasionally. "Almost seven now; starting first grade soon?"

"Yes."

"Are you a good little girl?"

"Yes."

"Good. Well let's have a look at you." He puts his hands on my throat and feels my neck. Shivers. He looks into my eyes, leaning closely against my face, his breath smells of smoke, hot by my mouth. Gag. Holding my head he looks in my ears, hot breath on my neck again, his hand slides down my neck, under the gown, holding my ribs and listening to my heart with a cold, cold stethoscope. I cringe slightly at the cold touch on my back. He presses his warm hand on my chest. Pinching. A little squeak escapes my mouth. Sternly his eyes bore into me "no noise, please."

I hold my breath.

"Breathe deeply." His hand slides down my front and pushes hard as his warm breath blows across my shoulder pressing the cold instrument against my back. "Again."

I inhale. I exhale. His hand slides across my chest. "Again"

I inhale. I exhale. "Good." He says suddenly removing his hands and standing up straight. "Now let's check your tummy. Lay back."

I stare at him blankly.

"Are you a good little girl? Do you want me to tell your mommy you were a good little girl?" I nod and lay back. "You were supposed to undress. Remove your underpants now please." Staring at the ceiling I slide my hands down and pull them off and drop them on the floor.

"Pick up your clothes."

I sit up. "What?"

"Pick up your clothes. You are not being a good little girl dropping them on the floor. Pick them up and put them on the chair over there." he paused and then added threateningly, "now."

I hop off the table and pick up my clothes, the gown falling all around me, barely covering any of me. I am so cold. I climb back up the cold black rubber covered metal drawer step to get on the table.

"Lay down."

The ceiling has little holes in it. The light on one side flickers sometimes. If I look up and the sun is just right, I can see the dust dancing golden in the light. Flickering lights are fun to watch. I remember. His hand presses on my tummy. "Ow"

"No noise." Sternly and fiercely he reminds me who is in charge. He presses his hand on my tummy, harder. I make no noise. "Good girl."

He pokes my stomach, my abdomen and presses down so hard that I think I will pee. Always mumbling, making noises.

The ceiling has little holes in the squares. If I count all the squares should I include the ones on the ends that aren't whole squares? Or should I ignore those? I wonder if I should count all of them or not, or maybe they should add up to one. "Ouch"

"No noise." His voice comes to me in a harsh whisper. My back is so cold on the table. The hands on my legs hurt; the thumbs grasping my little thighs, stretching my legs apart. His fingers reaching in to places that hurt. I bite my lip and count the squares.

One, two, three, four, five, and a half. My mind cries out in pain but my mouth stays quiet. Six and a half, seven and a half, eight and a half. Pressure, pushing, hard, one hand, fingers in me, the other pushing on my bladder. Nine and a half, ten and a half, and another half, eleven. Ouch my brain screams at me but I know; no noise. If I make noise, it will be bad, I will be bad. I do not want to be a bad little girl. Only bad little girls make noise.

I hear the zipper sound. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. The pain burns, the thumbs clench deeply into my thighs, ripping me apart. No noise. Fifteen. Pain. And a half. Burning fiery tortuous pain ripping me harder and faster he moves, in and out, ripping me, tearing me apart. My thighs scream, my feet turn to ice. Sixteen and a half, seventeen and a half. Yanking me hard I almost fall off the end of the table but he is there. He makes a small noise and I continue my examination of the ceiling, my inventory of the squares. I know every stain, every spot. It will be over soon. No more examination. He will tell my mommy I was a good little girl and I can go home. One last squeeze of my thighs and the pain ends. He pushes me back on the table. "Good girl." He says. I am a good little girl.

The blue gown gets ripped off of me and wipes between my legs where the blood stains the table. "You need to wipe better. You are not clean." He glares at me. "You have not been taking good care of yourself. Do you understand?"

I understand. I stare at the floor in shame. "I'm sorry. I will try to do better."

"If you are uncomfortable down there it is because you are not wiping properly. It is your fault. If you have pain, you should not tell because it will prove you are a bad little girl. You must keep yourself clean. Do not tell anyone about your bad dirty little self. Understand? I will tell your mommy you are a good girl so you do not get in trouble, but you know you are bad."

Hot tears roll down my cheeks. I am a bad little girl.

"Get dressed now." I climb off the table, naked, bleeding, in pain. My legs wobble slightly. He helps me stand up, holding me tenderly, gently. He helps me dress with great affection and kindness. He kisses me on the cheek. "Be a good girl Celia." He wipes my cheeks and ties my shoes and pats me on the head. "Would you like a lollipop today, sweetie?"

I nod dumbly, my eyes well with tears. He takes out a syringe and gives me a quick shot in the arm, covering it with a tiny round band-aid. He picks up all the papers from the table and crumples them up madly and shoves them into the trashcan with the swinging lid. I blink back my tears and follow him down the hall. The nurse walks by and smiles at me. Click, click, click; her heels go down the hall as the coughing hacking man follows her.

"She was a good little girl." He hands the chart to the lady at the desk. "Make sure she gets a lollipop. She didn't even make a sound when she got her shot."

My mom smiles proudly at me.

"You are good little girl." She pats my head and I slip my hand into hers. We leave the office and I climb in the car next to her. Tears roll down my cheeks. No noise.

"Mommy."

"What sweetie."

"I don't like when he does that."

"I know sweetie, nobody likes shots, but he has to. Don't worry about it. You are a good little girl."

"Do I have to go back again?"

"Yes, you have an appointment in a couple of weeks. The doctor didn't have all the boosters you needed today."

"I don't want to go, please." I plead with her, tears rolling unrelentingly now; still no noise. "I don't like when he does that."

"I understand sweetie, but it will be okay. You do want to go to first grade don't you?"

"I guess." I answer, saying what I should say, being a good little girl.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My hands are soaked with tears, my face stained when my husband finds me sitting on the floor in the hallway. "What's wrong Celia?" he asks obviously frightened by sudden breakdown.

I stare blankly at him for a moment before I run down the hall and vomit the contents of my stomach and then some into the toilet. I crawl into the tub and turn on the water. Scalding hot; I must wash. I am not a clean person. I am not a good little girl.


A/N As stated before, if anyone finds this too offensive, I will gladly remove. If anyone 'needs' to talk about this, feel free to pm me.