***Sex Abuse Triggers, Yadda Yadda***
All fun and games, isn’t it?
It seems real, and yet it doesn’t. Maybe I’m hallucinating, but maybe it’s real. It was at my grandfather’s house (or rather, in an out-building of same) – I briefly, in a different context, described the geography of the place here. The ‘byre’, as they infuriatingly called the building in question, had originally been built to house fat bovine fuckers in case it was too cold or whatever for the pointless, repellent, disgusting, moronic things to live outside (as you can perhaps tell, I fucking hate cows).
The byre had not, however, been used for that purpose for many years; although the farm was mostly still functional, my grandfather had let the fields out to others who therefore took care of the day-to-day running of it for him. The house however, and its out-buildings, were still entirely his, and generally out of bounds for those who rented land from him.
He used the byre as a storage room. I remember an odd fascination with it when I was very young; I would sneak into it, surreptitiously (but with surprising strength) releasing the bolt that secured its doors, and letting myself in with wide-eyed but silent enthusiasm. It was like a treasure trove – antique furniture, decrepit kitchen apparatus and lots of little receptacles and wooden wot-sits that my grandfather had carved himself as part of his carpentry hobby. For some reason, I’m reminded as I type that that he lost a finger and a half thanks to this interest.
A small part of the byre floor was sunken. It was a long but narrow shaft about three inches deep, a bit reminiscent of some of the most shallow parts of children’s swimming pools. It was designed for the cows/evil things to shit in; then their waste would pass down the shaft, which culminated in a hole to the outside world, out of which it fell into a quite sickening heap. The outside world in question was, when the byre was functional, a fertiliser garden, thus at least making the most of the evil things’ fecal matter.
By the time I first knowingly encountered the byre the shit and its shitters had long since gone (perhaps rather fortunately). It was clean and smelt of nothing other than the sweet aroma of decaying wood, owing to its eclectic collection of antiquated furniture.
IT took place with me lying to the left of the shit-shaft (assuming the perspective of someone who had just walked through the door). They kneeled in the shit-shaft to perform proceedings on me – sometimes comfortably, sometimes not so much; it depended on their height (as I recall). There were five or six of them, I think (though I’m not certain), Paedo included. I think one of them might have been one of my (Paedo-procreated) cousins, but I’m not sure – I remember clearly the person’s grotesque facial hair, but loads of people had such horrible beards and moustaches in the ’80s and early ’90s, so it could have been someone else entirely. The faces of the others I don’t recall at all.
I remember it from a dissociated place from the ceiling, except for the hirsute one whose face I remember level with my own, contorted with his rather monstrous sexual excitement, his eyes snapped shut. I remember being between what was either a (disused) large cooker or a washing machine (on my left) and a mahogany dressing table that had belonged to my late grandmother (obviously on my right). I remember that on the opposite side of the room there were these large dark wooden rectangular structures with springs hanging from them – I remember being completely mystified as to their purpose, though would now retrospectively guess that they were bed frames.
I think I might have been between five and seven, though I’m not certain, and I certainly don’t recall how many times this happened.
I do recall indescribable physical pain, but even worse was the unbearable humiliation, degradation and desperate, profound wishes for the mercy of death. Aside from The Hirsute One’s face, though, I remember very few specifics.
This is probably a good thing.