Rape!
J. B. Scott
I'm only three years old! Why are they hurting me? Won't somebody help me? The strangers had the screaming, sobbing child pinned down to the table, the tension in their fingers communicating determined rage. All at once, the frightened innocent felt a jabbing pain as some stiff hardness pushed deeper and deeper into the first orifice, followed by a second searing intrusion into another tender entrance. Then a thick, sickening fluid shot way down inside, and the small struggler began to feel an overwhelming sense of suffocating, final despair. Somebody please help me! They're hurting me so! Don't they know I'm only three years old?
Close by, in the darker part of the room, stood the initiator. Mommy! Mommy! Why did you tell them to hurt me? Do you hate me, Mommy? But the mother stood still, staring intently as the waves of wails washed over her. The emergency room crew was only doing what she had asked. It didn't matter to them that performing an upper G. I. on a physically upset patient would only result in a blurred, useless X-ray. It didn't even matter that, unless the patient was perfectly relaxed, the insertion of barium transfer tubes up the nose and down the throat would be excruciating. All that mattered was that this mother had authorized them to teach this screaming little brat a lesson he'd never forget—and all behind the guise of benevolence.
After all, these responsible members of society knew very well from their own mothers, and from grade school, and from church, that it was wrong to upset your mother. They all had certainly reaped the consequence of their own error early on, and now it was their turn. Worthless boy! How dare you cry when your mother wants to hold you in her fingers communicating determined rage! How dare you fret and reject your mother's trembling, eager love! That love now turns on you to cleave you asunder for your infidelity! Mother, how dare you have done this to me. I was only three.
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