Every time I get a case where the kid's been abused, it all comes rushing back to me. Every time I get a case like that, I think of my uncle. I think of my failures. And then I add to them.
I mistakenly think that I can help abused kids who are already dead. I mistakenly think that I can help myself by helping them. I mistakenly think that the little boy in me will heal when justice is served; when those monsters who tortured these kids are exposed. I think that it's enough, that small little bit is enough to heal a lifetime of pain.
But it's not. And it doesn't help that I can't seem to get justice for these kids or myself. It'll never end. The torture. The torture I feel everyday. It'll always be there because, honestly, there is just not enough justice in the world to make these crimes okay, to make the wounds heal. The punishments never fit these crimes. And in the end, the kids' are always dead.
The kid in me is.
I try to get him back. I try to lure him back with cartoons, new found contentment and a promise of security. But he never comes back. He's dead and I know exactly what killed him. I know who killed him, but I don't know why.
Why would a man take his own nephew, or any kid for that matter, into a bathroom just to get off? My hand was in his hand. His hand moved my hand. So why did he need my hand? Why wasn't he like every other man? Why couldn't he have just gotten himself off without my help? Without forcing me.
It makes no sense and yet I know it's not supposed to make sense. It's supposed to be like this. I'm supposed to feel this way and I'm supposed to continue feeling this way. This is how this whole thing works. I'm wounded for life; I'm marked forever and he still goes and eats lunch with no worries in the world. Good old Uncle George has a good old life and me? Well, I've got a decent life, but every time I go into a bathroom, I think of good old Uncle George and his big hands, his hushed whispers, his softly spoken praises and his even quieter threats.
I always remember. I will always remember.
Years may pass, but the little boy I was is still dead and my wounds will never go away.