Anonymous Story: Tight Jeans

The troubles commenced in December. I remember because it was my last day of school before Christmas break, and I always got excited about the parties. Okay not the party itself, but the food there. The year itself still remains unknown. My cousins and I nestled inside under the warmest blanket we could find. Our choices were limited due to the amount of people living there. My grandma’s house was always full. Three of my uncles refused to move out and whenever anyone else in the family had troubles at home, her house was the place to go. We all sat on the couch and participated in subtle bullying while waiting for Ms. [S]’s arrival. Huddling at the bus stop was out of the question. The freezing air was too thick, our jackets too thin. I scurried into the kitchen in attempts to grab a piece of candy or two off of the table. Knowing good and well I’d get a whooping if caught. I guess the spanking was worth it in my mind. As I slid the strawberry filled (and wrapped) Bon Bon’s in the jean jacket I wore year-round, I was caught red handed by my grandma’s boyfriend. When he hauled me outside I began to tear up. This can’t be good. And it wasn’t. I crept out, clumsily, plunging into his ginormous arms. Those limbs could easily break someone’s legs without struggle. He simpered. Acted as if he was trying to help me keep balance, all while slithering his hands up my shirt. He tempted to slide the other down my pants, but his hands wouldn’t fit. Those jeans I snuck on after my dad left for work saved me from a more dreadful memory.
It all happened so quick. I gazed at the floor in incredulity and began to shake my head in hopes of dispelling an image that would never go away. Disbelief still plasters my face when thoughts of him grazing his hands against me crosses my mind. I pulled away, hurriedly, afraid of what may happen next. As i began to head inside he grabbed my wrist, beckoned me closer, and bellowed the following words in my ear, “don’t tell anyone.” That I did. For a while, at least.
As the months flew, I kept silent and saw less of him. When the adults gossiped, I took heed. My grandma broke things off with him once she found out he cheated. She was heartbroken, I was overjoyed. For a while jubilant was an understatement until I soon realized he would find another victim. The more I thought of his absence, the quicker my smile turned over. What if his next victim doesn’t escape? What if his hands fit?