That 5 Year Old Girl You See On The News - Revised

I was that little girl – the silent emblem of lost innocence whose face might flicker across your screen in a news report, a statistic in a headline, or a cautionary tale. For years, her story was theirs to speculate about, to summarize, to forget. But now, it's mine to tell. I remember the details of that day better than I could tell you what I had for breakfast this morning; not just what happened, but the specific sounds, the faint smells, and the sickening knot in my stomach that has never truly loosened.

My mom thought I was at Kevin's house, absorbed in the Saturday morning ritual of cartoons, perhaps the 'One Saturday Morning' lineup that often bled into 'The Weekenders.' Kevin's mom thought he was at my house, equally captivated by the flickering screen. Neither of us was in either house, however. Instead, we were in the shadowy confines of the shed behind Kevin's house with a man two decades older than my mother.

At lunchtime, both moms came looking for us to tell us lunch was ready. For me, that meant comforting PB&P (peanut butter and preserves) on pumpernickel, served with the familiar coffee that had been a part of my routine since birth. I didn't always have the same thing for lunch, but I distinctly remember it that day. I don't remember what Kevin had for lunch. It was then they discovered we were not where we were supposed to be. They walked to some of our friends' houses and some of our favorite hangouts, looking for us. I liked hanging out at the weeping willow, and we both enjoyed the go-cart track. We could race each other at the track for hours. By the time they made their way back home, we had gone into each other's house and turned on cartoons. When they got back, they nonchalantly said, "You need to go home, your mom has lunch ready."

For those of you curious about what two five-year-old children would be doing in a shed with a man two decades older than one of their mothers, please stick around. However, for those of you who are faint of heart or feel weak of stomach, I urge you to consider stopping here. This is the precise point where the narrative delves beyond the vague implications, revealing details that are stark, raw, and deeply unsettling. It's a truth I carry, but it is not a story meant for every single audience, and your emotional well-being as a reader is important.

Nobody asked us what we were doing; they only asked where we were. Anyway, I want to tell everyone what we were doing. The man I mentioned earlier, his name was Mark. This man had some kind of affinity for children. I guess most of you would call Mark a pedophile. You would be right. He touched us mostly on our rear ends, among other places. I still remember that uncircumcised long john he had between his legs. It was gross. He told us that if we told anybody what he was doing, he would kill us. So, for a long time, we kept our mouths shut and allowed an innocent man to go to prison for what this man did to us.

He called it "teaching us how to have sex," a phrase that still curdles my blood. In his twisted reality, he was imparting some kind of perverse knowledge, presenting these horrific acts as lessons, as if he were a benign instructor instead of a predator destroying our childhoods. When I tell this story now, the forced sexual acts between us and his warped justifications are often the details that most people find the craziest, the most incomprehensible. But what is equally crushing is the memory of when I first confided in someone. The words tumbled out, terrified, only to be met not with understanding or protection, but with disbelief. I was not believed. That rejection, that invalidation of my truth, was its own kind of deep wound, a second layer of trauma that made the burden even heavier. In the ultimate act of degradation, he even made us five-year-olds have sex with each other. His twisted logic was that we needed to know 'what it was like with someone our own age.' But there was no innocence in it, no curiosity, only the chilling reality of his command, the fear of his threats, and a profound, confusing sense of violation that no child should ever experience, especially not at the hands of another child also caught in the same nightmare.

Though I penned the original words of this article at 28, five years later, at 33, I carry a deeper understanding, and I still have not forgotten. I still have flashbacks, but this was not all that happened to me. I have a lot more story to tell.

If you enjoyed this article, don't forget to check out my other stories on Vocal. Your support, whether through subscribing or considering leaving a tip, helps me continue to share my story. This article offers a glimpse into my journey, and a more comprehensive account, including my personal reflections and advice, will be featured in my forthcoming book, with a release date to be announced.