It was a small three-bedroom brick house, with six of us living in it. I was just a baby then, but I do remember certain things about that house. We had a dog that lived on the front porch, and my sister had a cat. The girls and the boys each shared a room, and my mother had the third, which was rarely used, and again I was young so I don’t quite remember everything. My mother usually slept on the couch though, at least that’s what I do remember, and I’m not really sure what the third bedroom was for. I don’t have many memories of either of my parents in the house on Burdeno Street, but as I told you before, I was just a baby. I’m not sure how long we lived in that house, but as a young child I do remember the next-door neighbors.

Mildred, Phil, and Bernard lived in the house next door. They were an older couple, and Bernard was their only child. Bernard was really cool. He was the first handicap I had ever seen or spent time with, so he amazed me. When Bernard was 13 years old, he was walking home from school when he collapsed on the front porch, having a seizure. He never walked again. He also had a horrible skin condition, I’m not quite sure what the name of it was, but there were always blisters and open sores on his face, and he rapidly lost his hair. I was young when I met Bernard. He had a high IQ, and always played games with me. He’d enjoy my company, and was a great childhood friend.

Aunt Mildred--no relation, that’s just what we called her, was amazing. She had a lot of nieces and nephews my age that would visit. My brother and I would spend the night every time they’d come. Uncle Phil was still working at Michigan Bell at the time, and was rarely around during the day. In the evenings he would come home and drink cheap vodka until he went to sleep, but he adored having kids in the house, and always found time to play with us even when he was exhausted. He was a Vietnam Vet that fought for our country with honor, and an amazing man. I regarded him as a hero. That was before.

Since both of my parents worked, I spent a lot of time with these people. They fed, punished, played with, and generally took care of us. Struggling financially my parents relied on the care of the community while they worked to feed us. I had an older brother and sister who were going through their teens, and had their own lives, so my younger brother and I spent time next door.

On this particular day it was hot outside, and my brother wasn’t around. Aunt Mildred had walked to the party store to play her lottery. She was obsessed with the lottery. Bernard wasn’t feeling very well and was in bed asleep when I arrived next door. My sister had locked herself in our room, and my older brother was out in the streets doing whatever it is teenage-boys did. Uncle Phil was sitting on the couch and welcomed me in with open arms as he did so many other times. He had been drinking and offered me a drink too. I accepted, I always did, and I always spit it out, and he’d laugh, and after the horrible taste in my mouth had subsided I’d laugh. He asked me if I wanted to play a game, and of course I said yes.

He took me into the front bedroom. The small room had a twin bed in it, with clothes piled up almost to the ceiling around it. Uncle Phil laid on the bed and sat me on top of him. He bounced up and down for a while when I’d noticed his pants growing. What’s that? I asked pointing to his pants. Immediately he unbuttoned them.

He proceeded to explain how the game was played. I remember telling him that I didn’t like that game, so he convinced me to play for just for a little while. So I did. I remember crying because it hurt so much. I remember him telling me that it wouldn’t hurt, and I remember feeling completely betrayed. Afraid that I would say something to Aunt Mildred upon her return, he calmed me. He gave me a piece of candy, and a bath. I got over it, but then it started happening more often.

One day it happened with Aunt Mildred in the kitchen and Bernard sitting at the table doing a crossword when uncle Phil called me into the living room. This time it was a different game. I liked this game better because it didn’t hurt. When he was done he’d make sure that I knew that it was just our game, and no one should know about it. I never told a soul, until now.

What’s the reason now? Why do I feel the need to tell my story? Well because I hadn’t remembered it until now. I do know that by writing my memories down that I would never be able to forget again. Memories like this some people might want to forget, but just forgetting them doesn’t mean that you are not subconsciously feeling the side effects of them.

When I was sixteen-years-old I was date raped by a guy I thought loved me. I thought he was a good guy, but just like when I was molested, I didn’t say a word. When I was younger I didn’t quite understand the seriousness behind the situation, I thought we were actually just playing a game. At sixteen I did know what rape was, and I did know that I was raped, but I didn’t have the guts to tell anyone. For some reason, like many victims of rape I believed that I was at fault.

Memories of what happened when I was a child came flooding back recently when I woke up in a cold sweat. I hadn’t remembered anything from that time. I’ve spent a lot of my life depressed, depressed to the point where thoughts of suicide were all-consuming. But even with the rape at sixteen I still considered myself lucky because some victims don’t survive their attacks.

I have a wonderful family, and I never had to do much to find a helping hand through life, but now at 27 years old, and with the recent flood of memories of my younger years I have had recent bouts of depression, and by writing I find it therapeutic. I’ve made mistakes in my life, and I’ve been the victim in a few situations. I don’t know if telling someone about what happened would have made things any better.

Uncle Phil had a heart attack not long after we moved to the Southwest Detroit area, a step up from Delray. The guy, who raped me when I was sixteen, left the fast food restaurant that we both were working at, and I never seen or heard from him again. In all honesty I wished I had told someone of that incident because by not telling I put others in danger. By not telling, I, the victim became an accessory to his crime… the one against me, and any that he might have committed thereafter.