A/N: This idea is floating in my head. I have to get it out. TW: Child Abuse (sexual, but nondescript).
I cannot recall my age upon our first meeting. I guess I was eight or nine; I remember Miss Jacobs at the front of our classroom that morning, talking about multiplication tables being due soon that morning. I remember the crisp spring rain falling against the class window. I remember the teacher calling my attention to the board, I suppose I was worrying about heading home.
I don't wish to share, but it is relevant to future events, so I'll limit the pity party. I wish I could tell you about block barbeques and pool parties; fireworks on the fourth of July and biking around the area. But I can't. I lived in a rough neighbourhood, if you can even call it that. Tucked in an area between two nice towns was a singular road through rows of neverending trees. You'd see a house periodically, but not the type to buy. Most were run down single wide trailers; paint chipped off them with haste, a mixture of children's toys and trash scraps littered the front yards, sometimes broken down cars for junking. There were no shops, no restaurants. Just a long road in the middle of a forest.
Mine was the 7th house on the left coming from Strasburg, the 13th on the right from Hanger. It was a single wide not breaking from the pattern of the rest. I wish I had toys littere across my road, but my mother had little money for it. Well, looking back, she did have money, but none for anything else but drugs. I believe it was heroin, but she took anything the men gave her just so she could feel a high. Harris Stretch is what we're called; a place where drugs ran rampant amongst our population. It was made here, sold by its residents, and marketed at the schools. I remember my mother handing my $20 to take to George, from down the street, at school. I remember her telling me to bring back what he gave me and to hide it from my teacher.
Other than that, things were okay at my house. We never had much money, so I guess I didn't know what I was missing most of the time, except for meals. School gave me breakfast and lunch for free since my mother never could hold a job, and dinner was dry cereal. My mom didn't start using until my dad, whoever he is, left when I was about 1. I don't cry about it, but I'll admit, I'm bitter about it at times. If he had stayed, maybe none of this would have happened.
When my mother met her boyfriend, Shawn, to say things went down hill was an understatement. Maybe more like we went off a cliff the size of Mount Everest.
Shawn was a burnout to say the least. He went to college for chemistry for a year, and dropped out when he figured out what he needed to know to manufacture. When he moved in, every vial, flask, tube, sudafed, and propane tank moved with him. Our house turned into a meth factory with all of the shit he brought in. In the 2 years he lived with us, we saw hundreds of different people looking for a fix. We also saw lots of abuse. Shawn was an angry man, but it was largely due to withdrawal (not that I'm excusing his behavior). However, I never thought he was the type of person to cross a line. Hitting was one thing. We never realized he would cross into prostitution.
My mother was first; going to the back room with random people. She owed Shawn money for the drugs she took, so that was her way of paying him back. Soon, it wasn't enough. On the day I met him, four rough looking men took interest in me. I didn't know what they wanted. An 8-year-old isn't supposed to. I followed them into my room, and well, I guess you can understand what happened. I cried in the beginning. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. When I was slapped for crying, I remember staring out the window, watching the tree line praying for anything to make it stop. It didn't until all four had their fill.
I vaguely remember practically flying out of the house after they were done. I remember my mother calling my name. I remember collapsing by a tree as my lungs strangled themselves for air. I curled into a broken ball on the forest floor, diaphragm hiccupping as I wailed, bugs crawling along my bare legs and mosquitos making a feast off me. I heard feather light footfalls on the dying leaves and pine needles. I screamed, thinking it was one of the men come to take me back. I ran blindly until I ran headfirst into a body. I scrambled back, looking up to see who it was.
It was him. A man that seemed to blend with a trees despite the black suit, the pale, white, featureless face, and towering figure. He knelt on one knee and asked me, "Where are your clothes, child?" I sniffled, and balled up again.
"They took them...off me…" I mumbled.
"Come child, they will not hurt you anymore." He whispered, holding a hand out. I regret flinching from him now, but he understood why I did. Eventually, I reached for his hand and he scooped me up like a puddle of sludge. I remember his suit smelled of oak and pine, a smell that would always comfort me. We suddenly appeared at a cabin deep in the woods; cicadas making themselves known in this deep part of the woods seemingly untouched by people other than the cabin itself. I remember a sense of serenity washed over me. I can't explain it. Maybe he did it. I knew, however, that I would be safe here. We went inside, and he placed me on the couch, and rough cotton blanket following shortly.
"I will be back, child. Sleep." He told me, his hand brushing back my light brown hair, urging my eyes to close. And they obeyed.