Haveachewbaby...

I've decided to give Myself writer's bloc for the rest of this week- then I won't have to go back to that paddock with Her.

That paddock...

At first glance it appears ordinary enough; there are about a dozen cavelletti set up under the tree and a show jumping course set up on the flat, and the bending and flagging poles are also set up and ready for action. There is a line of parked horses and riders of various ages and abilities, on various mounts of incomparable prices- and then there is Him walking up and down the troop line; inspecting us like cattle. Like meat.

He has his favourites, his star pupils. They are the ones who parents line the fence next to their expensive new cars and shiny new floats, things they've acquired just because Little Jenny mentioned to them Once that she wanted a horse. Their parent's are the ones who do all the work; they get up early to tend the horses before their kids are lifted on like little cripples to showcase their private on-going riding tuition, before fluttering back with yet another blue ribbon around their horse's neck- then they throw their reins to Mummy. These are the people who will get to go to the Olympics if they want to- just to rub it in a little bit further.

Those ones aren't His targets. They are way too visible. He goes more for the ones whose parents weren't there. That's not a slur on my Parent's for not being there, either, it wasn't their fault he was a sick and perverted arsehole- that honour belongs to him alone. And besides, you would think that your kid would be safe from Sicko's if they had a horse to gallop away from danger on, wouldn't you?

It also makes me wonder why I kept going back there every week if my Parent's weren't forcing me to go- but the only answer I can come up with was that I just wanted to ride. And win prizes. I don't believe I encouraged Him, even though my subconcious mind questions this belief relentlessly. I wanted to learn and get better at riding, that's all. I wanted to learn how to control my horse properly for a change and to learn how to make him jump over something bigger than the small logs we could manage. That's why I went; whenever I could spare it- I handed over five dollars, which is how much I paid for him each week to molest me.

He's placed the line of troops far enough away from the other kid's parent's so they don't really see what happens to the skinny boy/girl that nobody takes much notice of. He checks everyone's stirrups while they are mounted and as he passes Me he continues talking to everyone else about giving us a packet of chewing gum- at the end of the lesson instead of at the beginning like usual- because he's left them all in the boot of his car- they're Juicy Fruit today; not PK- but he lingers too long and even though he's ignoring me he's Not. I don't like chewing gum in a riding helmet. It makes your jaw ache and gives you a migraine- but it takes my mind off the fact that He's doing That to Me again and other people can see but no one does anything to stop him.

But it's the way he says haveachewbaby, fluidly like one silky word, while he passes the gum down the line that makes my skin crawl. He's a Parasite. And he's trying to crawl into my pants fingertip by fingertip as he tells the kid on Laddie the Showjumper to ride him forward at the jump, as if he were Clancy of the Overflow, and not to let him get away with any nonsense this time; and even my uncomfortable squirming, my angling away and down from Him, down into the saddle does nothing to stop him. He just ignores it- like I am a toy to be absently played with, and grinds his fingers harder into me, almost pushing my underpants inside Myself, so I think about Something Else...

Today, He explains, we will be playing Cowboys and Indians; where one of the riders begins as the Cowboy- chasing, for want of a better word, a herd- sorry- of Indians. The Cowboy is given a whip and chases the Indians until he 'tags' them, where they also become Cowboys and continue on, rounding up the Indians until none of them are left. I never stayed in very long as my horse is quite slow and lazy without the benefit of expensive oats, so I'm an easy target and get caught quickly. He sees another opportunity to exploit me and offers to let me ride his big grey show jumping mare, because he can tell I've got Real Talent, and if it weren't for the crap horse I'm riding, who is so obviously unsuitable for me and my long long legs that keep going on forever, who knows one day, maybe, I could even go far.

Maybe I should let my Sister ride the horse home today, he is really Her's after all, and I'll drive you home and we can discuss this Show Jumping Opportuniny of a Lifetime...

Fuck I'm stupid.

The bloke's been fiddling with me for weeks and I'm only thirteen years old and I know that's not a good thing, because he's a perverted old man and I don't like him touching my body. Christ. They aren't even breasts yet. More like 'nubs' if you could even call them that. All I know is that it's His fault that my tits are stunted. They stopped growing when his skeletal claws poisoned them with their touch.

Maybe he thought I was a boy, as well. Maybe I was just a mistake.

I don't like thinking these thoughts- thoughts like if he had thought I was a boy the first time he did the wrong thing and tampered with my little kid's body, which was even before he knew my name- which would have given away the fact that I was girl; then I was like a 'surprise' when he felt it for the first evil time that he felt it...

I told you I wanted writer's bloc this week.

I didn't want to remember looking down while I am holding the reins and noticing that the dusty ground was littered in hoof prints and various boot treads. I watch Him thread a hose up the horse's nose before he bends down to pick up a yellow funnel and the two litre bottle of Linseed oil that will be used to flush the horse's gut of worms. The reins need oiling, and are dry in my clenched hand and I fumble with the buckles as I remove the bridle,thinking that it would be better to oil the bridle and not the stomach lining, but he reassures me that the horse will be fine as I try and move away from him and his probing and twisting and tweaking of me; He's relentless when he thinks that no one can see him, so that even after you think it might be finished for the day he'll try and touch me again in places he shouldn't, when ever he gets the opportunity.

I just want to tend to the horse. I want to ride him home to his dirt square; it's almost exactly like the last dirt square that we took our other little horse away from. Why did we go back?

I want to walk up the Galloping Track behind everyone else- spray me with small rocks and dust as you take off in front of Me- I don't care-even if I get back an hour after everyone else, and youive all finished eating lunch and have taken of your dusty boots and cooled your toes already-anything's better than going in the car with Him. I know I shouldn't go with Him- I should walk back with my Sister and the others, even going through the creek if I have to, and if the horse won't tolerate me doubling on his back then I'll walk through it- I don't care- not even if my new riding boots get ruined.

Then the clincher...

If I'm not interested in riding the grey mare then maybe that Sharon chick, the one who is as rough as guts is, she might like to take the opportunity. She doesn't have a horse of her own, either, maybe she deserves it more than me. Maybe she Wants it more than I do. I know the price is my compliance. And as He pointed out- Who would've believed me, especially when he was a pillar of the Horsy Community and even had a Safety House sign on his letter box- and I was just a kid, and didn't you know that the Police issued them out only to Trustworthy and Reliable people - People who aren't trying to finger a child as they drive along a dirt track that is surrounded by bush?

It runs for a quarter mile out towards the highway through un-hewn scrub. Why is it taking forever to drive along this track to where it will be safe? At least then I can leap out of the moving car if I have to, and the traffic will see that I'm in troube and help me...

But I'm still on the track, and my riding helmet is no longer on my lap protecting my groin from his poisoned reach. It's on the floor and his hands are trying to undo my pants and I'm like no, don't do that, really quietly and not forcefully; like it made me feel just a little bit bothered and not totally repulsed and revolted.

Get your dirty old man hands off me, I'm thinking, but I'm still too much of a child to stand up for Myself. Then he stops for a few minutes and I'm starting to think maybe it's over This Time, and we're nearly home at last. Thank god. And then he casually reaches over, again, like I haven't even noticed and like I'm not even there; and he's talking about horses again, of all things, while I squirm again and try and angle my groin away from his touch. Can't he tell I don't like him doing it?

Or did I?

It bothers me being a sexual creature at times. How are we supposed to ignore these sexual feelings when we are sexual beings, even those confused feelings invoked by a sexual predator, and I especially want to know how he knew things and would tell me things about Myself that I hadn't ever told him- things about sex and things I wouldn't have talked about to a man who was old enough to be my Grandfather, and I hadn't, so it was like he had read my mind. Did the arousal eventuate because I was turned on by what he did or said, or because I had a functional clitoris that was merely doing it's job?

That thought bothers me a bit actually- that he aroused me in Any way when I couldn't seem to help it or stop it or stop Myself from feeling that way. It bothers me that the first person to touch me like that was an old man who was in his seventies. Come to think of it- it was also the time that my Grandpa got diagnosed with Parkinson's disease and had to start all of his crazy therapies that were never going to work- so who knows- maybe there's a connection somewhere.

I have often thought about Sharon, and wondered if it had happened for her like it happened for me- and if He had gotten to her too, if she worried that She had encouraged him just because she really wanted to ride as well? She was a girl about two years older than me, so about fourteen or fifteen I suppose, who lived around the corner from the paddock where He taught us to 'ride'. Snort. What a joke.

I always used to think of her as a hanger-on- everyone knew that she only liked you because she wanted to ride your horse. But then maybe she just wanted to be able to sit prettily on a horse like I secretly did...

I'm sure the Creep idly used her too, though I never asked her about it, of course. I knew her well enough over the years to say hello if I ran into her at shows or at Pony Club- because as an adult, as soon as she could really, she saved up and got a horse of her own. Skeeta was a nice looking bay gelding that was pretty quick on his feet, and so she did quite well at the sporting events and at jumping. I always thought that was a fitting end for her- and was pleased that if the Pervert had gotten to her like I suspected he had, then at least he hadn't turned her off riding and horses and relationships and kids. She ended up being a person who wouldve ridden for Life, I reckon, just because she loved it so much, but then she died about two years ago in a terrible car accident- that also took her young Son's life as well.

I sometimes used to think what would have happened if I had ever asked her about Him and if he had abused her as well, and if she would have confirmed the suspicions I had. I used to dream of Us going to the Police with our story and have him arrested and sent to jail to be fucked up the bum like the rock-spider that he was. I also used to fantasise about seeing Him walking along the road in his wig and knocking him down with my bull bar, and I imagine what I will say to the Police, telling them what he did to me, and how I just snapped out of control and lost it.

I can reveal all of this Now, because the opportunity to kill him has passed and I'll never be able to kill him now...

Not that I condone murder. I would've been extremely disappointed in Myself if I had acted on my desires.

But not sorry.

I don't know why I insist on trying to end things on a poignant note all the time. And I don't know why I have to have the final word all of the time either.

I think that when I die, even if I just Think that I have made it to the afterlife- as I slip away and have my Final Thought- even if I just think it and then there is Nothing- that I will be satisfied enough to die quietly. Can we even know that we are having our Final thought as we are having it? I don't know that I will ever be ready to go. I might just want to stick around and let people know that I'm still here. If I'm able to. Shouldn't I try my hardest to give someone absolute proof of the afterlife if there is one?

Hell; I already think that I can astral travel, how difficult could it be to stay behind and become a ghost?

Surely we don't snuff out entirely. I can't conceive not having any more thoughts. Is that what absolute silence is? True Death?

Even when that Arsehole died I went back down to that paddock to have a look around. I drove my car there, putting it into four-wheel drive just to make sure I wouldn't get bogged and be stuck There waiting for ages for a tow. It was different of course, and that's what one would expect after fourteen years, but I thought I might recognise something- a tree or something- or one of the myriad of tracks that used to snake it's way through the bush. But the whole lot was gone- the fence, and the old gate that swung inwards, and all that was there was a rusted out car on it's side in a gully near where the cavelletti used to be, and a lot of tractor tracks burnt into the mud- courtesy of the recent roadworks...

And there was no Scent of him there anymore, no trace of His filth; only that sweet smell of the bush in Summer- and the cicadas were pissing down from the trees, and the breeze is blowing hot in my face once more as I gallop, in My mind, up the track that took Us, years before, on the long track home.

When I heard that the Wiggy Prick had finally carked it last year, sadly of natural causes, I was happier than I'd been in ages- I only wish I knew where he was being kept now so I could go and spit on his grave. Yes- he fucked me up that badly.

But at least I've stopped thinking about him as much as I did before.

I wonder what His Final Thought was? I bet it had nothing to do with being Sorry to any of Us- me and Sharon, and He-only-Knew how many Whoever-Else's...

I don't reckon that we were 'Special' to him at all...