WARNING: The following content includes descriptions of abuse. Some readers may find this subject matter triggering.
You were a funny man. You always did silly things which made me laugh a lot. Your strong accent sometimes made your words sound hilarious, so much that even you laughed out loud.
You lived alone, just one block away so you visited us all the time. I wish grandmother was still alive.
Most Sundays you went to church. You wore your best and I remember your shoes were always so beautifully polished.
You often came for dinner. My mum would cook a roast every Sunday night and if you couldn’t come, I’d take the hot roast meal around to your house so you didn’t miss out.
There was one Sunday I remember ever so clearly. You couldn’t make it for dinner and mum asked me if I could take the hot plate wrapped in foil and covered by a tea towel to you. As always, I was happy to bring it over.
You greeted me at the door with your usual smile and placed the plate on the table. Then you took my hand and walked me down the hall. I thought maybe you had a surprise so I followed obligingly.
We went to your room and you took off my clothes. Then you took off your own. I was confused. I didn’t know what was happening but I was always such a good girl that did what I was told without question. You laid on me and did things that I could never even imagine possible.
When it was over, I got dressed and went home. My knickers were wet and uncomfortable and I couldn’t wait to take them off. My mum said I was gone a long time, but I just shrugged my shoulders and went to my room.