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Abuse — a child’s perspective:

Kelly was
eleven the first time she remembered the night visitor coming. Her mother was
drinking and so was the visitor. Kelly was asleep the first time he came but
was awake when he came after that. She learned to know when he was coming.

At first, it seemed like part of her dream, something from
the depth of her fears. She started to yell, to twist away, but his hand was
over her mouth and he was twisting her leg and pulling off her nightshirt.

What does he want? What is he doing? “Don’t be afraid
my little kitten, my little wildcat. I won’t hurt you if you play with me. We
are just playing and it is our secret.”

She heard her clothes rip and tasted his blood as she bit
into his hand. He twisted her harder and shoved more on her face. The pain and
fear froze her and he gradually let her loose. Now both hands of the visitor
were over her body and hurting her down there. What was he doing? He smells

That was her last thought. She must have passed-out, because
when she woke up it was morning and she hurt and she smelled bad; and where was

It was hard for Kelly to open her eyes, hard to sit up on
the edge of her bed, hard to face the fear, knowing he was still there, but he
was not. The sun through her window was bright, her school papers were still
neatly laying on her desk, her clothes were just as she had carefully laid them
out on the chair the night before, her toys with which she seldom played were
in their places on the shelf by her closet and arranged just right in the toy
box, and she was still Kelly.

No that’s not quite right. She would never be Kelly again,
at least not the same innocent Kelly she was just the night before.

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