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by Rivers Solomon

it is clear that it has been a long time that she’s understood it was nothing supernatural that was ever our tormentor.

“Don’t think about telling anyone,” she says. “They won’t believe you. Don’t tell a single soul.” I wouldn’t dare. The shame, still, hasn’t left me. She has made certain of that.

I told the police almost everything once before. The things I knew, anyway. You know what happened, sis? Nothing. And if that startles you, if you don’t believe it, you’ve been living in a fantasy world.”

If I made up a story about you being possessed, it’s because even then, as a little kid, I could see the truth, that it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry for the hold that woman had on you. For what she made you do. I’m sorry that you’re nearly forty and what she did to you still decides how you feel about yourself.”

I wonder if that feeling will ever stop, that every ill in the world is meant for me.

Being raped repeatedly over the course of one’s childhood obliterates any trust a person could ever have in themselves, in their own body as a vehicle of protection. What is intuition? I will never know.

save her like I wish someone had saved me.