
The Little Cloth Secret Keeper

I held her clubbed hand, cradled my cotton sister, and began to cry. I was a 32-year-old mother to a sweet son, holding an old doll and sobbing in the closet. My body convulsed as I recalled the sexual abuse of my childhood.
I dubbed him The Monster. Others called him Father. He was a close friend of my parents and a frequent guest in our home. He seemed to be as tall as he was wide, with a head of slicked ice-gray hair and silver-rimmed glasses. His face was rough like a prehistoric crater. Upon his arrival to our home, a snack tray with potato chips and pop was promptly placed in front of him as he settled into his favorite vinyl chair.
As a precocious three-year-old, I danced and performed around the living room, and he beckoned me to “come sit on my lap.” The day I finally did, the twirling stopped and the terror began. While I bounced on those thick dinosaur legs, his hands hurting me under my dress, my parents would ask if he needed anything. I assumed they must have known what he was doing to me. After all, he stayed for a delicious dinner.
Over time, the chair game was no longer sufficient. The Monster and I would leave the house and take our “special trips.” In desperation, I reached for Raggy and took her along, though she was never able to protect me. We were both too small.
His car had one long, flat front seat. I would lie still and squeeze my eyes closed. I hoped he would stop if he thought I was sleeping. In my little girl gut, beneath my floral cotton sundress, I screamed at him to go away. Raggy stayed close, and my tears soaked her dress. As the gravel crunched under his tires, his face bloated like a toad, he would turn to me and firmly state: “Do not tell anyone. No one will believe a little girl. And if you do tell someone, I will find you and kill you.”
Shortly after my sixth birthday, my living nightmare suddenly ceased to exist, and finding the perfect box, I reached for Raggy one last time. I hugged her so tight, her black button eyes seemed to bulge. Twisting her red yarn hair in my fingers, I held my pinky to Raggy’s crooked stitched mouth and asked her to keep our secret safe in her little cloth heart. I folded her in half and laid her gently down. Sighing, I carried the carton up to our attic one slow step at a time.
The crack of thunder and my dog’s bark brought me back to the moment. Sitting cross-legged on the wood floor in our hallway, a mixture of scarves and shoes scattered, I gently gave Raggy one last hug. Realizing all I had been through made me the person I am today, and for that, I am grateful. Pressure is a key part of what turns carbon into diamonds. And like a diamond, I will continue to shine.

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