Shoes on the Windowsill

I lived in the next house for just a year, the year I was in kindergarten. I have a lot of memories from that place. The most striking is a pair of black patent leather shoes sitting on a windowsill.

I asked a brother for a cup of apple juice, and he said that he'd give me apple juice, but afterwards, I'd need to play a game with him.

We went to a room that no one used, and he put a mat down on the floor. And then he said we were going to play a dare game.

"I dare you to take off your shoes" he said. I took off my shoes, and put them neatly on the windowsill.

He dared me until we were both down to underwear.

"I dare you to put all your clothes back on." I said, and he laughed.
"It doesn't work that way." He took off his underwear, and told me to take off mine. He made me lie on his belly. I guess that was when he realized that I was too little or that it was wrong. He told me to put my clothes back on. He told me not to tell anyone.

Two weeks later, I hadn't found my shoes. My mom went to the room to look for something, and I went with her. She saw the mat on the floor and asked me what we'd done. At first, I didn't answer. And then I saw my shoes on the windowsill.

I don't remember what I told her. I don't remember anything more about it. I mostly repressed that part. Somehow, telling was worse than experiencing. My mom claims she checked me for signs of damage. I don't remember it. I don't remember anything changing. My mom said she told my siblings. I don't remember that. She says that he wasn't allowed to be alone with me for years. I don't remember that either. I remember the feel of his skin, the look of his penis, but I don't remember anyone ever telling me it wasn't ok to talk about it. I don't remember any change in anyone's behavior. It felt like it was just covered up.

He never touched me again.

When I was eight or nine, my grandfather came to visit me, and he brought me a book about sexual abuse. I said "oh, yeah, I know about that. Brother did that to me." My grandfather left right after that. I guess he didn't know what to say.

A little while later, there was a school assignment to write about something you wish hadn't happened or something like that. I wrote about my experience. Kids treated me pretty weird after that. The principal called in my parents to talk about it. Everyone said I was okay, and I never got treatment then either.

I know that what I went through wasn't horrible, but I also know that it marked me as a victim. In Stephen King's "Salem's Lot," one character describes that he's marked by a vampire, and it's only a matter of time before other vampires feed on him. (I think I got that right, feel free to correct if you've read it more recently than I have.) I was marked then. In school, kids teased me, and at one point, I was in a school in a bad area and I got beaten up a few times.

In high school, a guidance counselor told me that I walk around looking like a victim. I don't think I managed to change that look until I was 26.