A couple weeks after the rape I had gone with an older (blood) brother and two of our friends to that warehouse to drink. I worried a totally different brother would rape me too, even though the idea is ludicrous. But no one noticed the way I stared into that room- the one I had been raped in. I went in there to see if the bed was still there. The stain of his cum was still visible and it upset me. But I had stuffed the rape into my subconscious; some part of me had died that night. Standing there, I couldnt drink the alcohol. The nervousness was there, but I had blocked out why I was upset. All I knew was I had an intense sense of dread while I was there and I avoided that room after only taking two steps across its threshhold. I never wanted to be in that room again.
Roughly three months had passed since it happened. When my stepbrother came by I was alone in the house. He was supposed to be able to come in and use the phone or whatever any time he wanted. Although I was always told to avoid him, my stepmother failed to mention that he was a pedophile. I was still in my pjs when I answered the door. He came in and I went back to my room to avoid him. There was little about him that I had liked; he's the type of person that gives people a bad name. As far as character of men, I always thought of him as a dog- the lowest of the lows. But he was my stepbrother. I called him my brother. You do not get to choose your family.
He knocked on my bedroom door to ask me for razorblades. Then he drew me into this long conversation about how he had binged for the last three days on cocaine. The last thing I want to talk about is a bunch of drug use with a person I have no respect for. Staying as far as I could away from him in my room, I avoided answering his questions or interrupting him because wanting him to go away was more of my prerogative. As I sat alone in my house with no brothers and no parents or stepsister, alone with this monster of a stepbrother in my room, I began to feel uncomfortable. That is when he asked me.
When do I get to stick it in again?
I didnt get to stick it in all the way. When can I stick it in again?
What are you talking about?
And then I remembered. All the memories came flooding back. I turned white and started shaking. You didnt want it?
I heard my voice, but it didnt feel like mine.
It's ok. It's ok.
Truthfully I don't know who I was telling that to- whether it was him or me, but I had to get him out of my room as fast as possible. There was not anything I had to do; when I came out of my daze I noticed he was already gone. All I could think was what kind of sicko thinks a 15 year old girl wants to have sex with a 27 year old man- a disgusting one at that? I had never come on to him. I called him my brother. I disliked being around him, but I was trying for my family's sake to bond with him. I never touched him or hugged him. Before all this happened, I had only kissed a guy. Surely I did not want to have sex with this guy, even if he was not family. This same guy had a list of women that he kept- a record of who all he slept with. According to him, he had already slept with over 100. The thought turned my stomach. And then I remembered. My stepmother had asked me multiple times to write her son while he was in prison. She included an awkward picture of me when she sent it. He had shown it to me when he met me and told me how beautiful I was. In his return letters he demeaned me by saying how I was so young and I didn't know anything. So I made up some stories when I replied about how I wasnt stupid. That I had experience. That I was not just some stupid kid.
But what stuck with me was the picture. The comment he made about it. Looking back, I can only imagine what this sicko was thinking about a 12 year old awkward girl to call her beautiful in a low long way- as if enchanted. Especially since he was a grown man.