I have only vague memories of my childhood; reels of memory, broken and unlinked. Most of them are of my uncle, as my parents were busy. They were busy earning money so i could go to college, not just college but a good college. Not just good, but a college better than the neighbhourhood kids went. But i had this uncle who used escort me from when the day broke, till i fall asleep, while he reads me a bedtime story.
He died last year of pancreatic cancer. I haven’t seen him after my age of 9, when my dad got a transfer to Itanagar.
“He is the sweetest uncle anyone could ever get”, is what my mom says. Maybe she is right, i do have memories of him buying me wax crayons, and joining me in making my childhood colourful.

But then i have this memory of him,

“Suhaa baby”, he calls, with a book on his hand, gesturing me to sit on his lap. He then reads the story with his guttural voice. He had pot belly, and i used to love sitting on it, like on a beanie bag chair. But if i climbed up he would dragged down, and force me sit on his lap.

And as the tale progresses, he rests his head on my shoulders, and teases me with kisses on my ears and neck. Then i felt something stodigy around my butt, and i knew that it is about to begin; my heart skips a beat, i sweat profusely; helpless and hopless. He then places a hand on my thigh, and then slowly, with his guile, he runs the fingers up.
Moments later, he undresses himself, partially, and then me, partially. I used to feel scared and restless, sitting on his lap, doing nothing. I make attempts to move, “it’s done… it’s done… just one more minute”, then he says. I then close my eyes, and pretend that he was still reading.

” I’ll uncle”
“No… no… you ain’t old enough to take bath alone.” Then follows me to bathroom, with a bath towel placed on his shoulders.
He then undresses himself, fully, and then me, fully. He turns around and looks if anyone is watching, even if the door is closed and the house is empty, he was scared, he was scared of getting his mask ripped.

He then stands on his knees, and smiles; and i knew that it is about to begin; my heart skips a beat, i sweat profusely; hopeless and helpless. He then lips my flesh with his vicious toungue. I can still hear how his lips smack when he reverts it off my body, i still hear it, everyday, it rips me apart. I didn’t know what he was doing was good or bad, but it used to scare me, it used to scare the hell out of me.

It happened not just once or twice; i dont have a number.

It all happened 15 years ago. Time heals everything they say, not in my case, the tremors transceeded time, and it still lives in me, and i’m one ambush away from total breakdown. Anyway as my parents wished i got admitted to a prestigious college. I lived their wish, but i rarely go home, their faces reminds me of my childhood; and the things i never told him.
I excel in academics, I topped the last semester, but i don’t have a great image among my peers. I get my roommates changed every week, no one have ever put up with me for more than a week. They raise questions about my mental health, but no one wants to know my story, neither am i telling, even if they ask.

And then this happened which which made them confirm their hypothesis,

Day before, i was sitting in library with a book infront, partially reading, actively musing. I was moody, as always. Then he came and sat next to me. He smiled. I returned it to him in fake. He wanted to talk, i told him that i was not in a mood to, and want to be left alone. Okay, he said.

I went back to book i was reading, fetching the line where i lost in touch with reality. And then i felt a hand, i felt a hand around my thigh, fingers featherly touching my inner thigh and slowly hovering up; the reels of childhood began to be played, i saw my uncle, his smile, heard his gutterly voice calling me, the sound of lips smacking, smell of masculine sweat; I SLAPPED HIM, I SLAPPED HIM, i slapped not once, but I went on slapping, with all the force I could get, I slapped my BOYFRIEND, my sapiosexual boyfriend, and I broke into a cry, it wasn’t a cry, it was my rage, my fight song.


Art by : Lukasz Poslad