Painted Faces - the masks people wear

Once I was seven...

          I am 7 years old, and my best friend Louise and I are sitting on the spare bed in her room playing "Barbies". Louise is an only child; her parents are older than mine. She is in many ways the opposite of me; boisterous, taller, confident, a real tomboy. Once she broke her arm and found it hilarious, much to my Mum's indignance, to tap me on the head with it – somewhat painfully I might add, and rather irritating to boot. But today I am staying at her house for the night, and we are playing happily together. Her Barbie has hair that grows when you pull the ponytail, mine has hands that can hold things – a little suitcase that you can put her comb and brush in. I am aware that we are both lucky to have such special types of Barbie dolls – not everyone has these particular ones! We chatter away taking turns to "be" each Barbie and creating stories for them.

     Lunchtime! As I eat my sandwich, I hold it with both hands. Mrs Anderson isn't impressed and tells me off – good manners mean you never hold it with two hands, only one. I feel embarrassed and crushed, squirm in my seat and hope she doesn't think badly of my parents, that they have taught me so badly. My appetite disappears and I long just to escape back to the safety of Louise's room.

     Now it is bedtime. Often, I wet my bed, so a plastic sheet has been put under the sheet just in case. My Mum had put it there when she dropped me off, so that I would feel safe if an accident should happen. Something far worse happened that night, however; another memory to be firmly buried. I woke in the middle of the night to the feeling of Mrs Anderson's fingers painfully, shockingly inside me, in a place I had no real awareness of until then. I froze; why was this happening? "You've wet your bed, hop up Christa. You'd best come with me." Uncertain and disoriented I did as I was told and holding her hand followed her down the carpeted hallway to her bedroom. Mr Anderson, somewhat bald and round was waiting for us; smiling he indicated I should hop into bed with them "as your bed's too wet to sleep in now." I curled up, still confused by what I think has happened in the other room, wondering if somehow I was mistaken and it was just a bad dream. Surely she wouldn't want to hurt me? Could I have been that naughty after all?

     Soon the reality of that thought was brutally revealed. Held down as I wriggled and tried to get away, crying in fright, my legs were pulled apart and he sat on me. I don't understand – why does he want to sit on me? Then he stabs me in that same place she put her fingers – pushing and pushing until I think I will split in half. What is he doing and why does it hurt so much and why won't they let me go? Doesn't he realize it won't fit? My mind congeals in panic and fear as I begin to scream. I can't stop, will never be able to stop again, ever. Isn't this wrong? I must have been incredibly naughty and bad to deserve this, but I'll never do it again, I promise! Just STOP! Now I'm suffocating; there's a pillow shoved and held down over my head as she tells me to shut up – I'll wake up Louise with my silly carry on.

    I'm now sitting on the toilet down the hallway crying, asking for my Daddy – and to go home. Please call him; he'll come get me. I feel dirty, broken, confused, sore – and incredibly alone and unsafe. But they pace up and down the hallway arguing, with each other and me. An added insult: the door is open and they can see me on the toilet. Why should that make me squirm, after everything else that's happened tonight? Maybe I'll wake up soon and find it's all just a nightmare, but no. That won't happen because you see it's real. Far too real. She tells me I can't go home; and why would I think my Daddy would help me anyway? He doesn't want me, certainly doesn't love me. After all, if he did why does he go away for work every second week? He certainly wouldn't want me now. Not after being so naughty, doing such dirty things – I should be ashamed of myself! I will go home tomorrow and say nothing of all this; it's our secret, they'll protect me while I say nothing, otherwise they'll just have to tell my parents how awful I am, how naughty and badly brought up. Then no-one will want me. One final proviso: I must return again next weekend; she will arrange it with Mummy because I had such a good time with Louise this weekend.

    That weekend I discovered just how bad I really was, just what was required to retain my parents love. I must learn to be brave; far braver than any little girl should have to be.