Mauled Pink Kiwi

Perched beside the window, hugging my knees closer to my chest, cocooning my face between them. Hoping it will make me invisible to those hawkish eyes peering at me like prey. Feeling jailed within the walls of the foster home, fearing what’s in store to come, wishing for freedom, uttering prayers for somewhere safe to stay. 

Everyone says that home is safe, and parents are the only people to trust, yet why do I feel differently? Perhaps it’s my fault; I’m the odd one out, If I understood my mistake, I will surely try to correct it. Maybe I should have kept quiet, endured the pain, and not twitched when Uncle Sam kneaded my fleshy mount and toyed with private parts. But how can I not flinch, when it ached so much? Or maybe that’s not the reason why they abandoned me here. Could it be because I was a disturbance? If I had sat in the portico until Ryan, Mom’s colleague went back home. Or maybe Dad is simply unhappy with a 92% grade. I should have done something to disappoint all of them.

Dad, a super busy industrialist whose absence at home was more pleasant than presence. Even if he was at home, he was physically present and mentally absent. 

My Mom, a diligent lady with a striking appearance, always dressed to look sassy. Returned home every day accompanied by her colleague Ryan, with loads of work. At least that’s what she told me and I believed those client calls and office work behind closed doors for more than a year. Occasionally when she came out to grab some water, her drowsy undressed look always made me pity her workload. 

Returned from school every day to an empty home, refreshed, and headed off to tuition. Hated tuition, but Dad insisted because of my mom’s persistence, compelling me to attend, even though my grades were good. Later I came to realize the purpose of sending me to tuition wasn’t to improve my grade but to keep me engaged. 

My parents were grateful for the timely help of Uncle Sam. He willingly agreed to ferry me to and fro from tuition. I too felt good to have someone to talk to, he was affectionate and caring. He inquired about my day at school, would listen to all my stories attentively, and showered me with surprise gifts. Being the single child of parents immersed in their professional lives, often felt lonely. Uncle Sam filled in that vacuum.

Only later in the year, I understood the intention behind those sweet talks and surprise gifts. His concern to hug him tight and close so that I don’t slip from the bike, uncomfortable embraces and tickling games meant something else. The lavish treats, generous pocket money, and long route back home via desolate streets carried an underlying intention. 

As the days passed, the situation with Uncle Sam grew unmanageable, and wasn’t certain how to handle it. Complaining to Mom seemed pointless because she wouldn’t believe me in the first place, secondly, that was the time she returned home to engage in her private party with Ryan. The very same reason why I was sent to the tuition, a means of keeping me out of her way. Times I reached home earlier than expected, her annoyance would manifest in subjecting me to humiliating repercussions for the rest of the evening. She would complain to Dad with false accusations, and getting a blast from him was an added bonus. So I was left with no choice but to bear the whims and fancies of Uncle Sam.

My 10th birthday arrived, and no friends or celebration. Another ordinary day with just one exception. Would get a kiss more like a peck on the cheek from Dad and Mom along with a brisk handshake before they hurried their separate ways to work. Still, a gesture I longed for and treasured until my next. 

Unlike my parents, Uncle Sam planned a unique surprise for me. He had come with his car to drop me off at home. Pointing to the beautifully wrapped gift with a pink bow, he asked me to get into the back seat. Inside was a four-layered makeup kit. Instead of feeling happy and excited, the gift instilled a sense of fear, didn’t know why. Just as anticipated, this gift was accompanied by an expectation of a return gift.  

Parking the car in a dark desolate street, he got down and went around as if checking the tires, inspecting the road, checking for onlookers. Satisfied, he got in beside me. 

Flashing his 32 teeth, with beer-stinking breath, he said ”Happy Birthday My Baby, Come on let me give you a tight hug”. Squeezing tighter, the affectionate kiss changed to disgusting spitting kisses all over my face with his hands tracing all over. He was too strong to move away. The harder I fought to get away, the rougher and angrier the kisses grew. It became forceful, bruising to biting. 

Was too shocked to react, uncertain of what was happening. Remember pleading with him to stop with my choked breath and squeaky voice but it fell on deaf ears. 

He behaved like a vulture feasting a carcass. I started to feel dizzy, falling into thin air, too weak to resist, failing miserably to fight. Heard the buttons of my top pop open with the force he was imposing, and within a second I could feel his hands kneading the raw flesh. Everything else turned blurry after that, everything else happened too fast, being caught in this inescapable den. Felt pain somewhere between my thighs, half-conscious felt my hands falling to the sides. 

Unsure how much time had passed but woke to the sudden splash of water over my face. My dress was intact so maybe it was all imagination. But there was a sharp throbbing pain between my legs, as though a broken piece of glass had ruptured the sensitive skin. 

Uncle Sam was joyful like he had worn a trophy, I looked puzzled by his grinning happy face. He inquired if I was okay; didn’t know what that meant. I nodded because didn’t know what just happened or what was I supposed to say.

He drove me home. With stinky breath wished me again, and whispered “What just happened is our little secret, so don’t talk about it to anyone. If you did, they’ll see you with disgust”. I believed him. 

Walking with unsteady steps, unlocked the main door, contemplating whether I should show the gift to Mom and tell her about Uncle Sam’s show of affection. But crossing her room I witness Ryan reenacting the very same scene that I just experienced. But unlike me, Mom didn’t seem to be in pain but her expression was something else which I couldn’t decipher. Perplexed by the sight, not knowing what to make of it, headed straight to my room and shut the door.

Confused and uneasy, feeling broken and shattered, lost and lonely with throbbing pricky pain sat on the bed. Maybe Uncle Same is right, talking about it will make people look at me with disgust. So I’ll have to hide it, keep it a secret. 

The urge to cry welled up within me but yet eyes remained dry, had to study for the test tomorrow but felt too tired. Crawling under the quilt, burying my face under the pillow, feeling scared of tomorrow, but feeling safe at the moment, drifted away to the first night of nightmare. 

I woke up with a jerk, still clutching my knees closer to my chest, surveying the foster home. As I scanned the room, I could see at least 20 pairs of eyes similar to Uncle Sam, peering at me with the same grinning smile.

Alas! Escaping the clutches of a single Uncle Sam, only to be caged with twenty more, bearing the same resemblance, in this foster den.