…her name was Katie. She would come to my house at lunchtime and visit with our housekeeper when my mother wasn’t home while I was supposed to be napping. I was not quite old enough for a big bed, and that is why I still slept with training rails.
I don’t remember why I was out of bed and standing at the kitchen door, but I do remember being dragged back into my room by this woman, Katie.
I had a stuffed doggy who came with a collar and leash, and that afternoon Katie removed both and placed the collar around my neck and looped the leash through the bars of the bed so that I was tied down and restrained.
I don’t remember anything more except for crying. Screaming and crying. Screaming and crying. I don’t even remember who came to release me a few hours later from my safe bed that had become my prison.
Years later, I recall asking my mother why she let this happen to me. She said she didn’t know what I was talking about. She said it must have been a dream.
It wasn’t a dream. I know this happened. Was I too afraid to tell anyone for fear I would be punished or that no one would believe me? That is what they say happens to children who are abused. I didn’t know I was abused then. I remember now.
“What doesn’t kill us gives us something new to write about.” — Julie Wright
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