Part 1 of 2. (to speed up loading time we cut chapter 1 into 2 parts.)

Where do you begin when there is so much inside that wants out?

I wish I was a big strong wind, and that just by blowing, I could clear the air of all the sadness and hurt I have held inside for so long. Never again would I experience the pain of remembering the darkest, deepest secrets of my life. Just as quickly as this whole mess started it would end, and everyone would understand what I had been through, and all the hurt I felt. Nevertheless, since I am not that wind, I will take a long, slow sigh and begin to tell my story…. ( )

Belle Glade, Florida was a dangerous place to live, but as a child I found it fun and exciting. It was there I learned from my Uncle Dutch how to file down pennies to look like dimes, to trick the coke machine into giving my brother and me free sodas. When filing pennies became too much work, I would go down to the corner store hoping to earn spare change by helping the neighborhood drunks gather empty bottles. But whatever pastime I engaged in, you could be sure it involved broken glass, which was everywhere. It littered the walkways, the street, the parking lot. Any place you found a flat surface, you found broken glass. ( )

Sometimes I’d just sit and marvel at it, the sun’s rays making it appear as jewelry shining on the concrete surface. But not even glassed jewelry, kissed by the sun, could beautify this dilapidated neighborhood. The puke-green, four-story rooming house with its chipped stairwells, graffiti-covered walls, and pungent urine smell was where we called home. Each floor had twenty small rooms and a foul-smelling community bathroom located at one end of the building. I would often sit on the cement walkway, outside our room and dangle my feet under the metal railings as I watched the tenants pass below. Sometimes, out of boredom, I would run my hand back and forth along the aluminum rail that stretched from our room to my Aunt Katie’s room, only a few doors away. Aunt Katie is the reason my mother moved to Belle Glade in the first place. ( )

Belle Glade was very different from the island. I had to travel at least five blocks from home to find a safe place to play. Everyday, I would rush off to my favorite place to play and climb for coconuts. It was so beautiful and different there. The ground was covered with white, smooth sand and dates that had fallen because they had become too ripe. Everyday I would pass the same two little old ladies sitting on their porch, and everyday they would ask me the same question: ( )

“So how’s our girl doing today?”

And everyday, I would reply, “Oh, pretty good.”

I said it so much that after a while ‘Pretty Good’ became my nickname. Even strangers would yell to me from their porch, “Hey, Pretty Good!” while waving their hands and smiling. I’d smile and wave back as I ran by.

I think, because I had always been a happy and cheerful child, the idea never crossed anyone’s mind that each night in our community shower, I was being molested.

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Let’s call him Mike.

Mike was fourteen when we had our first encounter, and I was five. He was the son of my great Aunt Katie whom I spoke of earlier… therefore, he was my second cousin. Ever since I can remember Mike had spent most of his time in and out of jail for either fighting, stealing, or selling drugs. ( )

Mike resembled Link from the seventies hit series, “Mod Squad.” He was dark with clear, smooth, chocolate skin. He wore an African dashiki with a band around his head most of the time. And for the most part came across as hip. He stood about five-feet, six inches, but acted as if he was six-foot-six. He wasn’t afraid of anyone. ( )

Everyone knew I was Mike’s favorite cousin. It wasn’t unusual to see me tagging along behind him when he visited his friends. He always took good care of me.

Yep! Nothing was too good for his little cousin, “Pretty Good,” not even an occasional finger in her vagina every now and then.

Being five years old, I trusted Mike completely. So when he said he needed me, I believed him and would do whatever he asked whenever he asked. ( )

One day he took me in the community shower of our building. In broad daylight, with people coming and going all around us, he laid me on the wet concrete floor, leaving the door partially ajar. He began sliding his finger in private part and kissing me as if I were a grown-up. He climbed on top of me and prepared to place his manhood inside me when we heard a noise. Mike became frustrated by the sound in the hallway, and sucked his teeth in disappointment. ( )

“Someone is coming,” Mike whispered in my ear as he jumped up and ran towards the urinal while pointing for me to get behind the shower curtain.

As soon I ran into the shower and closed the curtain, my brother, Junior walked in. He looked around the shower stall as if sensing something was wrong. Slowly he walked towards my direction. Just before he could uncloak me, I pulled the curtain back, jumped out of the shower and yelled, “Gotcha!” ( )

I’d pretended to scare both he and Mike, which proved even more that I was a willing participant. My brother, never acting the wiser, looked at me with a frown that usually meant I had gotten on his nerves.

“Quit playing,” he said grabbing me by my hand, as he escorted me back to the room where we lived.

I often wonder whether or not my brother knew what was really going on between Mike and me.

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Titled “Cucumbers Have Thorns and Snakes Love Strawberries” by Janice E Sullivan (Sep 5, 2007) Paperback $17.95  – Kendel Read Ebook now on sale at only $0.99 - Prices are subject to change with out notice.