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    Uncle Creeper
    Uncle Creeper
    Uncle Creeper
    Ebook125 pages1 hour

    Uncle Creeper

    By Lily Lifeshitz

    ()

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    About this ebook

    "Don't be such a victim. It happens to all little girls at some point in their lives. Get over it and stop saying such things about your uncle; he has a family now."

    This is a mother's response after being told by her daughter that she'd been sexually abused by her uncle. What do you think about her response? What would you say if this was happening to your child? We all would like to think we would protect and comfort our children in a similar situation, but we all know that doesn't always happen.  Lily's mother was little more than a bystander, tragically failing to protect her from the vile acts perpetrated by her younger brother - she did nothing to stop it.

    Unfortunately, too many children grow up in dysfunctional environments and are left vulnerable and alone, making them perfect targets for pedophiles. 

    In Uncle Creeper, Lily reveals the horrifying details of what happens to vulnerable little girls when no one is watching – and sometimes, even when they are.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLily Lifeshitz
    Release dateMay 1, 2019
    ISBN9781386832034
    Uncle Creeper
    Author

    Lily Lifeshitz

    Lily Lifeshitz - a writer, artist, and mother of three. Lily lives in Houston, Texas with her 2 dogs, Lily and Jack and her cat Smokey.

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      Book preview

      Uncle Creeper - Lily Lifeshitz

      CHAPTER 1

      In one of my first memories, I am four years old and I am standing on top of a wooden table. It is pushed up in front of a large picture window at my grandmas’ house. I am pulling up the edges of my red dress, exposing my panties. Someone is instructing me to do it, but I can't see their face.

      As in most memories, there seems to be no absolute beginning and no real end. Like the appearance of a magician—poof—I simply appear. In the memory, I am already mid-action. I watch myself live out my past childhood in short scenes. I can’t stop what is happening, I can’t change it; I can only participate as an observer.

      Along with the imagery sometimes come smells. This memory brings with it the lemony sweet fragrance of the polish that my grandmother uses to dust her furniture. Recalling it causes my mouth to twist into a pinch. As I stand there, in this memory, headlight beams slice across the curtains as a car turns into the driveway. The lights move slowly towards me. I look away, glancing back over my shoulder and see a square shaped camera hiding someone’s face. I turn back to the window, being careful not to slip; my shoes feel very unstable on the freshly wiped wood. The headlights stop moving and blink off.

      Zzzerrr ittttt. Behind me I hear a familiar zipper sound, coupled with a flash, as the camera spit out an undeveloped image. I can feel the photographer moving up behind me. My hair lifting and falling as the air of the moving photo is being fanned up and down. A hand extends and grabs mine. A voice says in a whisper, Hurry up and get down now. I can’t tell if the voice belongs to a man or a woman; it sounds rushed.

      The feeling of that moment is still so fresh that my guts twist and slither against each other like a pit of snakes, although I’m still not sure why. I am left with only a flash of the memory of having my red panties photographed by someone that I can’t know because I can’t see their face—can’t remember it. What happened is burned in my memory even though the person there has no face.

      Someone, it seemed, had picked out the red dress with matching red panties—I could have never coordinated something so well. The act of having my underwear photographed seemed so deliberate, maybe even planned. Someone had instructed me to stand on that table and pull up my dress. But who was it? I have a strong urge to know the who as well as the why.

      What else, if anything, happened that night? I don’t know why it matters so much. There is no way to go back, and no way to change anything anyway—if there was anything that even needed changing. Maybe if I could see more of the memory before or after, it would answer some questions and put the memory to rest for good.

      Things seem more hurried when the car turned into the driveway and stopped. Why was I told to get down once the headlights went out? Who had arrived as the picture was being taken? Why can’t I remember anything else? Is it even important?

      I smacked the side of my head with my palm and squeeze my eyes tightly, trying to force more memory to come into view. I’d seen that same segment so many times, but I could never, no matter how hard I focused, get more from it and was growing tired of the answerless questions.

      My mind is filled with a lot of incomplete memories similar to that one, but that is my most famous because it is my first. It was the first thing I can remember happening to me as a child—significant or not. The image always dissolves after the film snippet fizzles out. That same short and incomplete fragment of memory has flashed through my mind at various times throughout my life. I’m always unsure what prompts it to come. There never seems to be any specific triggers or special moments that brings it to mind.

      After years of recalling that flashback, I would happen upon that very photograph in one of Mama's photo albums. I was in my thirties when I discovered it. At first sight, the same mind movie segment started up like an old projector running through the familiar scene; still, nothing new appeared. I felt a sense of shame when looking at the photo for some unexplained reason. The seam of my bubble-shaped rear end was visible through the sheer red panties, panties a four-year-old perhaps shouldn’t have worn, or at least not shown off to anyone, let alone have photographed. As I looked at the photo more closely, I realized the panties were made for a little girl.

      I carefully plucked the Polaroid from between the delicate cellophane and the sticky page. Judging from the brownish square left in its place, the photo had been there for some time and it made me wonder who else had seen it.

      Maybe it wasn’t as big a deal as I’d made it. It was obvious the photo hadn’t been kept a secret from Mama since it was in her album. Was she the one who had taken it? Did it mean anything at all?

      Next to the space where my photo had been was a snapshot of my brother Walter, sitting naked on a watermelon. His tiny white penis perched on the skin of the melon like a grub worm. Seeing his photo made me wonder if I had put too much energy and effort into trying to force the return of a memory that most likely meant nothing.

      Both photos were probably taken faultlessly. Perhaps nothing happened before or after the picture was taken as I had speculated for so long; it was just the typical snap-your-kids'-innocence-before-it's-gone type photo. Besides, all kids had a partially, if not completely, naked picture taken at least once in their life, right?

      Although I knew that very well could be true, something made me believe there had to be more to it, bringing to mind all the things that had been done to me by my uncle Chessie. Uncle Creeper. Chester-the-Molester. The names I’d adopted for him after hearing other kids saying them, which also happened to coincide with my understanding of what being molested really meant.

      I guessed I’d pretty much always been aware that something was off with his touching games and frequent penis expose’, but early on I didn’t know it was necessarily wrong.

      When became an adult and decided to talk to Mama about what happened with Uncle Chessie she said, Don’t be such a victim. All little girls are molested at some point in their lives. Get over it and stop saying those things about your uncle, he has a family now.

      Sadly, it was as if being touched or sexually abused was just a part of growing up—like learning to ride a bike. You never forget how to ride a bike and you certainly never forgot being molested, at least I never did. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be forgotten. Maybe Mama was right, being molested was some kind of experience kids needed to have or was at least expected to have. After all no one ever stopped it or made a big deal out of it when they found out.

      It seemed to me that people got into more hot water for admitting they were ever molested than the people who did the molesting.

      After the initial conversations about what he’d done to me, Mama ordered me to stop saying stuff like that about my uncle. I never remember any one saying anything to him—he was never held accountable for what he did. And what he did to me certainly played a role in how my life turned out, the paths I chose, and the decisions I made. Being molested was usually at the front of my thoughts; if not, it was for certain hanging in the back of my mind—either way it was always there.

      As time passed my memories of what happened didn’t bother me as much because I’d come to accept it for what it was. I wasn't as disgusted by what had happened to me as I was when I first understood it. That part of me never completely faded away; I just tried to move on, I guess. After all I couldn't blame every poor choice I made on that part of my past?

      CHAPTER 2

      Growing up, one of the most important things to me was being close to Mama. The dresses she wore always draped around her thick body like a tent. I just wanted to slither underneath her house dress and into the buttery warmth of her, wanting to return to the place where she said I’d come from—her belly. In my imagination, I thought if I was inside of her belly again, I would always be safe.

      One morning I watched as the cotton material of her dress swung back and forth in semi-circles around her fat calves as she lumbered across the wooden floor. I tried placing my tiny feet where hers had stepped, following closely behind her into the kitchen.

      Mama was twenty-four years old at the time. She had me when she was twenty and had Walter when she was eighteen. She was short, with big breasts and wide hips that were divided by a small waist. Her dark curly hair was short, tucked behind her ears and framed an angelic face—a face that without warning could crease and fold, twisting it into a hateful mask.

      Would you get the hell off my ass! she said through clenched teeth, spinning around and looking down at me with heat in her once-calm eyes. I jumped in surprise and backed up slowly.

      Go on! Get the hell outside and play or do something. She waved her hand toward me, fanning me away. I spun around and ran through the sheet door that hung between the kitchen and

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