The Second Visit (Sensitive Content)

I hadn’t made any arrangements for the following day, and as I took the short walk from my front door to Stuart and Karen’s house, the apprehension that swept over me was almost suffocating, as was the fear that violently churned in the pit of my stomach.

Sleep had, surprisingly, greeted me fairly quickly the night before; my mind had not yet fully digested what had happened. But as I neared the destination, inching my way forward, my head became awash with the frightening details of the encounters I'd had over the last couple of years.

The photo sessions with Ropeman, the sexual contact Stu had subjected me to; I began to wonder if it was all part and parcel of normal adult life. But mostly, I was scared of them.  Afraid that if I didn't show up, one of them would say something to my parents about what had taken place.  And truth be told, I was terrified.  Stu frightened me more than anyone I'd ever met.

Karen opened the door and gave me a warm smile. It wasn’t the sickly smile of Ropeman, nor was it the twisted grin I’d seen on Stu’s face the previous day, but I still felt an almost irrepressible urge to smack the smile clean off her face. She was evil; not nearly as intimidating as Stu, but evil just the same.

I walked past her and strutted into the lounge, my blond spikes erupting from my skull in all their glory. “Alright Stu.” he looked up from his paper, his bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and for the first time I noticed just how scarred his face actually was.

Karen came up behind me, I felt her hand on my shoulder, and “Don't I get a kiss then"?

I didn’t know where to look, much less what to say. I’m not sure if it was visible, but my whole body felt as though it was physically shaking. I tried to make a joke of it and simply kissed her on the cheek, quickly rubbing my lips with the back of my hand and pretending to be sick, mimicking the actions of a four or five year old child.

After sitting on the sofa, I asked Stuart if it was okay to turn on the CB, which was on a small table between where I was sitting and his armchair. “Leave it off for the minute,” he replied, “maybe we’ll put it on after a cuppa.”

Before I could do or say anything else he told me to stand in front of him, telling me I was wearing my studded belt all wrong. I did as was asked, and he began rubbing my crutch.

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A Step Into Hell

As soon as I entered the lounge of the now all too familiar flat, I knew something bad was about to happen. My body felt like it was wrapped in invisible chains, and I smelt fear. my own fear. It was as though the atmosphere pulsated with such intensity that it grabbed me, shaking my flimsy little body, flaying my limbs in all directions, like some pathetic rag doll.

God, I was so terribly scared.

Ropeman left me alone while he went to the kitchen to sort out our drinks. The sight of the beer made me shudder, and the muscles that didn't tighten, twitched instead. 

 A dark and gloomy, musty smell,

A place no warmer than a prison cell,

Strange thoughts enter into your head,

You now start wishing you were tucked up in bed.

A frightening chill shoots through the air,

All you do is stand and stare, 

It’s a place with an eerie feeling,

Your heart by now is really speeding.

Sepulchre,

Sepulchre,

What a place,

Your heart is beating a rapid pace.

That awful chill is slowly rising,

All you think of is surviving,

But as you try to run and leave,

You can’t help thinking your eyes deceive,

Lurking in that gloomy doorway,

Is something that’s come out of doomsday,

You try to move, but are stuck to the spot,

You try to scream but breathing…, you’re not.

Sepulchre,

Sepulchre,

What a place,

It’s now your home.

To my relief, after handing me a beer, Ropeman slid the video cassette into the player, and we settled down to watch the film I was far too young to see.  I tried to concentrate, but I was conscious of his every move; my muscles tightening at the slightest twitch. It was an exceptionally good summer, so when 

he asked if I was hot, I replied with a simple yes, pretending to be engrossed in the film. But I knew in fact, every cell in my naïve young body sensed danger.  And when he suggested I might be more comfortable if I removed my top, the fear enveloped me to the point of numbness, and before I knew it, there I was, stripped to the waist again.

It wasn’t long before the second stage of his sick plan was being put into action. “Shall we stretch out a bit? After all, there’s plenty of room,” he said.  I felt like a rat caught in a trap, knowing there was no way out; no one was going to be knocking at the door and saving me.

“Is it ok if I use the toilet?” I asked the question merely as an escape, something that would give me a bit more time, however limited it might be before the inevitable happened. Ropeman stopped the tape and directed me to the bathroom.

On returning to the lounge, I noticed that he’d removed his top.  He was sprawled across the whole of the sofa, smiling, beckoning me to join him.          

What choice did I have?

With a great deal of apprehension, which I’m convinced he was aware of, I did as I was asked.  After awkwardly positioning myself into place, he began cuddling me from behind, pulling me closer before stroking my chest. Within seconds I felt his arousal in the small of my back.  Without success I tried to ignore the feel of his sweaty fingers by losing myself in the movie.

Try as I might . . . and I did try, going so far as   

to close my eyes and picturing myself saying the words, but somehow I couldn't summon the courage to tell him to stop. 

My silence was deafening, and the sound of his erratic breathing all but consumed me, before I fell away.

 

You touched me,

Held me,

And stroked my chest,

Told me that you,

My teacher knew best.

I felt your hardness,

In the small of my back,

I had a chill in my spine,

When you said I’d be fine.

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Why Didn't I Run?

After that incident, I should have run, hit the pavement and screamed from the rooftops.  I should have told anyone willing to listen what they had done to me.  Most especially my parents, I should have gone to them, but I couldn't help thinking that if no one believed me, it would only make things worse. I’d inevitably have to disclose the past events with Ropeman, and coupled with the way I’d been behaving over the last few years, I was sure I’d be looked upon as a fantasist; just another lie from the strange mind of Simon Palmer.

            What's worse, I was utterly convinced if I continued to keep my silence, and  refrained from going back to Stu and Karen’s, they would almost certainly come looking, and that thought terrified me most of all.

            Apart from keeping all this to myself, I was confronted with another dilemma. What was I supposed to tell my friends? They were used to my being around and to suddenly disappear without a trace, how was I supposed to deal with that?     

            Confusion was rapidly seeping into my world; and combined with the fear which was paramount within me; my behaviour at home fell to an all time low, school remaining a complete non event. The truancy became so much of an issue that the authorities assigned me a social worker, who in turn, suggested my parents agree to me seeing a child psychologist.

             Numerous opportunities to tell the official bodies presented themselves, but I steadfastly remained silent.  The lies continued, and so did the abuse.

Peter Simpson, along with Mark Milner, two of the greatest friends anyone could have asked for, began to see less and less of me. On the rare occasion when I did see them, it felt like something had changed, like our friendship was over; we no longer had anything in common, or so it seemed.

A State of Euphoria

My school suspension was lifted exactly one week later and things carried on much the same as usual. I continued to be the mixed up problem child who no one had any time for (except for the love that my family continued to offer), swearing and cursing my way through life. When my form tutor told me the lunchtime music practice had been revoked, I saw a green light for truancy.

Accompanied by the drummer of my band, Sean Watson, most of our days were spent reeking havoc on the infamous Ferrier estate in Kidbrooke. When we tired of throwing stones at people’s windows, we’d steal large quantities of milk off the milkman and hide ourselves high up on the balconies, pouring it on unsuspecting passers-by as they walked through the many rabbit warren type pathways. We would often collapse in uncontrollable fits of hysteria as our victims tried in vain to apprehend us.

 One particular afternoon saw us both have a crack at shoplifting, our target being a local hardware store, hoping if nothing else, we’d get chased by the manager.

Sean created a distraction by talking to the man about a Saturday job, while I committed the actual theft.

I grabbed the first thing that my trembling hand rested on and slipped the object into my blazer before silently walking out of the shop to the freedom that eagerly awaited me. I was about to cross the road when the sound of heavy footfalls boomed behind me. Spinning on my heels, I expected to come face to face with an irate shop manager, but to my relief it was Sean, “What is it? What did ya nick?”
“Fuck knows.” I put my hand into my pocket and pulled the mystery object out; it was a large tube of Evostick.

A short time later, we were crawling through the tiniest of gaps behind a low-level car park, and very oblivious to the world that surrounded us; we introduced ourselves to the fine art of glue sniffing.

I cannot speak for Sean, but for me it was the most awesome thing I’d ever done. It completely transformed the way I thought; there was no pain or fear, and I felt no sadness whatsoever. The make-believe world I had so often dreamt about began to flourish, enfolding me within all its glory.

Crisp blue skies,
A sun so bright,
Sweet smelling flowers,
Birds taking flight.
An ocean of colour,
The horizon so bright,
A feeling of hope,
And nothing to fear.
Beautiful hills,
And fields full of corn
Chairs in the garden,
Swings on the lawn.

The howling of wolves,
Death and decay,
A dread in the heart,
At the start of the day.
Scared of the shadows,
And what they contain,
Contorted illusions,
Of a brain that’s insane.

I began to sniff glue on a regular basis; enthralled by the way it made me feel. Every opportunity I got was spent with a carrier bag at my mouth, escaping the hell that had become my world.

During the periods when I wasn’t high, and the way the come down left me feeling, a new kind of anger started to emerge, giving me a compulsion to inflict harm on myself, as well as becoming more physically violent towards others.

I soon started picking on the local kids, demanding that they give me their pocket money, threatening to beat them up if they told their parents, (and sometimes beating them up anyway). Every time a cat or dog came near me, I would lash out as hard as my strength would allow.

At times they appeared to have his grotesque smile, and this could send me over the edge.  Sometimes I’d sit for hours within the confines of my room, stabbing my arm with a sewing needle. I’d stab harder and harder, enjoying the burning pain. It took my mind off the memories, images that now tormented my brain on a daily basis, except for the occasions when the glue took me away.

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Dreaming (Wishing)

 How great it would be to fly. To soar up into the sky, higher and higher, not stopping until I reached a new world. A place where no one cried and where smiling was compulsory. Fields so full of bright and vibrant colours, it would be impossible to walk around without feeling joy in your heart. A land where even the slightest of pain is nonexistent and vast rivers flow with crystal clear waters. Where a gentle breeze would weave its way through the branches of trees, making them sing so loud it was almost deafening, but pleasing at the same time.

 Such a place might be called Heaven.

Of a love so great it was almost visible. A feeling of such intensity I felt a compulsion to reach out and grab hold of it, to savour it and keep it as mine forever. Perhaps it would be possible for every soul inhabiting this special place to be linked together for all eternity, joined by  this wondrous power, smiling and laughing, and just being happy. 

Suddenly, reality returned me to the park bench I was sitting on, just outside the school gates. A tear trickled down my cheek, would I ever be free of Ropeman? Was it my destiny to be stalked and tormented by him forever? My mind could not comprehend what he was doing at my new school, and I felt overwhelmed with paranoia, convinced he was only there because he knew I was. It felt as though he was telling me that things were not yet finished, and I felt so alone.

Battle Scars

 This is by no means an attempt to explain the dynamics of self-harming.  I don't understand it myself, but I'll share how I experienced it.

There have been many times in my life when the sensation of angry ants crawling just below the surface of my skin threatened to drive me mad. It felt as though they were gnawing at my skin, ready to devour my flesh. The feeling that I was being eaten from the inside out is the best way I can describe it.  There seemed to be no relief . . . just an endless assault by invisible enemies declaring war from within my own body. 

As these horrible feelings intensified, the stronger the urge to hurt myself became. It was as if the wounds I inflicted on my body were actually enabling the creatures dwelling beneath my skin to escape, leaving me temporarily relieved.

I have taken razorblades, broken beer bottles, and even lighters to my arms, desperately trying to rid myself of the sensation.  In hindsight, I believe these were feelings, emotions which I chose to suppress, memories that can only be pushed so far back into one’s mind, before they push back, with a vengeance. 

  My self-harming has never been an attempt at suicide, and it wasn't attention seeking.  It was just a means of relieving the constant emotional torment.

These actions were at their height during my time at Kingfisher, but there was an occasion when I literally hacked at myself with a razorblade whilst aimlessly wandering through a busy shopping centre in South London. The result was over 200 hundred stitches, ironically these actions only served to fuel my self-hatred, which in turn, made me want to do something similar in order to ease the new pain.

It was a vicious cycle, which at the time seemed impossible to break.

Whenever the blood flowed from inside me, I felt a great sense of relief, and there were many times when watching it actually made me feel content, like I had accomplished something.

There was never any great battle within me to stop doing it, in fact, I often looked forward to the feeling of “self gratification” in hurting myself; it was the only thing that appeared to ease my pain.

As I grew older, the need to do these things was alleviated, until finally, thankfully, it became nothing more than another bad instalment of my complex past.

I’ve often heard people expressing anger at those who “self harm”. I personally think these views aren’t altogether justified. Very few things are black and white, and when it comes to admonishing someone for these actions, in my experience, it only serves to escalate the problem.  It's very much like scratching an unbearable itch.

In the present, I try to hide my many scars by wearing long sleeves whenever possible, and I have numerous tattoos to cover the more drastic damage. Having said that, on the many occasions that I’ve been asked how they came to be, I have always been honest, and I feel no shame in telling others that the scars were self-inflicted.

Teenage Zombie

With bleached blond hair, and an abundance of safety-pins, I honestly thought I looked mean and scary and tough.
I swaggered around the estate drinking beer and smoking both cigarettes as well as dope, and I felt like someone important, someone to be feared . . .
. . . but I was nothing more than a kid with the wieght of the world on his shoulders.

I wanted to be different, to stand out from the crowd, but most of all, I wanted to mask how I felt inside.

During my teens mum wasn't always in the best of health, (I often wonder if my behaviour played a part in that), and she was often in hospital.

During these times, dad would run the home; cooking us all dinner, shopping, and doing the other mundane tasks that helped to keep a home in order.

he asked me if I intended on visiting mum on an occassion when she had to have major surgery, "No" was my rude but simple reply.

I had to go to Stuart and karen's, and I didn't want to make Stuart angry by not turning up.

Stuart was a middle-aged man who, along with his wife, forced me to have sex with them - night after night.

I couldn't tell my dad this, and so I pretended to be an uncaring yob - when truthfully - all I wanted to do was visit my mum.

At fourteen, I should have been laughing and joking and having fun - but instead I was merely wandering around like a teenage zombie - lying to the world about how I really felt.

The abuse I was being subjected to by Stuart and Karen, (along with the teacher at school), were not just abusing me, but my entire family.

Eerytime I was toched by these people, they were not just interfereing with me, but my mum and dad too.


Child Abuse Destroys Entire Families - Do't Let It Ruin Yours!

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