Monthly Archives: May 2012

Dear Addict and Families



Welcome.  I am by no means a registered or certified therapist in the terms of drug addiction or alcoholism.  I have something better to offer.  24 years of being an active heroine and cocaine drug addict daily and needle user.  I m recovery now, and for sometime and what my experience can offer is simply courage, strength and hope for the drug addict, and more so their families.  There is nothing I have not heard, seen or done and you are not alone.  I repeat you are not alone.

What is dear addict?  I started Dear addict about 6 years ago on sites and a website.  It’s really simple, Dear addict is people helping people.

Content requirements may dictate how often we post, but like Dear Abby, simply email me with two things; your questions or sharing your experience for others and if you would like to remain anonymous, I will let you know when it will be posted with my response, and people may comment.

All emails are strictly confidential as are our posts unless otherwise requested.

Lets help each other, which will result in the greatest weapon for our children to not use drugs=education and awareness


Please let me know if this would be helpful for you


Thank you


book Chapter two-sneak peak-My life as a white, female drug dealer

book cover

chapter two

They say everything happens for a reason
Not today in this rainy season
At some point I had to be leaving

He freed me from my apparatus and my limbs fell limp.

I had been demoralized beyond recognition, stripped of my virginity by force, lost my strength through blood and beatings, lost all faith as I was sure to die, and threatened by pure experience. I tried to think and absolutely nothing became of it. Absolutely, catatonic, nothing was there. It was impossible to feel free of John.

When I could muster strength to focus through my swollen eyes, I saw him. He stood over me smug and very proud of his accomplishment. He lifted me from my armpits and stood me up. I buckled from shame and pain. He lifted me again, and I stood. From behind me he gave me his last kick between my shoulder blades.

I fell and lay face down, now less fearful. Anything he could do now wouldn’t come close or be worse than what he already did. He picked me up, my Raggedy Anne dead weight was able to barely stand again.

I climbed the mountain of stairs, opened the front door at a broken snail’s speed, walked out into the rain and didn’t look back, got a block away and could still hear his music blasting.

School was just getting out and I limped towards a detour route to the only place I had to go; which was home. I was too traumatized to think of what my mother would ask, what students that did spot me would say, or how I could explain to anyone the physical damages so detailed and exposed.

All I could do was keep taking breaks by standing and feeling so grateful for such a heavy rainfall as it was washing the blood remnants away, all the while stinging my cuts and fresh bruises.

When I reached my mother’s apartment door, I stood there for an eternity in fear. I was sure to be in trouble, having to lie and being rebellious for so long that nothing I said she would have believed. I had no keys and finally knocked. The expression on her face when she saw me was one of shock and caused her to cry, pleading with me to tell her what happened. I convincingly swore I fought with a girl at school over another boy. She told me to go to my room.

Soaking wet I climbed under my bed covers and pretended I was asleep when anyone entered. I did not move for three days. Nor did I sleep. That third day was a shock I never thought I would see. It was the only thing that stopped my mental obsession from needing that numbing cocaine, and how would I get it. Where could I find a drug dealer, as I lay there also wondering what could I sell to get some money?

The knock at our door was my grandiose father I had not seen for six months. My mother had not seen him in two years. He in the entire time since leaving, helped none of us financially or cared either way. For me that day, I would learn, without knowing it, he would free me from the fear of the unknown as to what was going to happen next.

My mother and father called me into the living room where they sat at the dining room table in the same room. There was an empty chair, reserved for me. Still badly bruised and swollen, my father began to cry as he nodded to my mother, who told me to sit down.

My alcoholic father proceeded to tell me he got sober and that my behavior and attitude indicated I had a problem with drugs. He flew into town to help me get sober too. There was a rehab, one of the best in Minnesota, and I could be there in two days for a 30-day treatment to detoxify.

Like a lifeboat I was just handed a means to get out of my city, my school and mostly, away from John. Manipulating both my parents I lied and confessed I was injecting cocaine for some time, and needed help desperately. They were proud of me for wanting help and the next thing I knew I was in an admitting room, knowing no one, in drug rehab. In my mind I was never going home again, I just had to figure out how.

The counselors, while compassionate, had very strict rules. Which I liked, given it was a co-ed facility. I don’t know how I convinced these professionals I was a junkie or maybe they knew I wasn’t and kept me there sensing I needed to be safe. Either way I had to participate in all groups: for drug education, relapse prevention, sharing and learning how to live a sober life. At turning just 15, I was becoming an expert about drugs I had never used and now, learning how to use them.

The clients, rather young adults, stayed hard-core and laughed at stories that were definitely not true. Mine included. Within a week I was promoted from the new bruised kid at the Centre to one of the family. Rebellious still, I had my fair share of punishment.

This, my first of many rehabs to follow, taught me the basis of being a drug addict and the means on how drugs were bought and sold. It also taught me that my attitude was indeed one of an addict. This became crystal clear when I was discharged on my 28th day out of 30. Discharged for breaking rules and not working the treatment program as outlined for me.

So there I was, locked in a waiting room with two chairs, waiting my eight hour estimated time until I had to face my, sure to be, livid father. No clue what was to happen next, I knew I couldn’t go back home. Not under any circumstances. As I waited in that quiet room alone, I glorified the day I could start using drugs and feel numb like the cocaine made me once feel. I had learnt so much. I was actually prepared, in my limited understanding to embrace the possibilities that I would be sick, with illicit drug addictions.

The key seemed to have jammed in the lock as they were opening the door to my holding space. Then, when it opened, my father entered first. Afraid he was going to hit me I stepped back but stood tall. He can’t hurt me here, I remember thinking.

He hugged me, crying, explaining this was all part of the process of recovery and he was taking me home to Texas where we could find more treatment. For some reason that was just as scary as returning home. As lost as I felt, boarding that 747 headed south, I, at the time, had no idea what to expect. No idea that I had just completed my first semester in drug usage, habits and behaviors of drug dealers and lastly how drugs destroy your life. That part fell on deaf ears, I just wanted to get high. In retrospect having really done cocaine only once was enough to trigger a chemical reaction in my body that would stir in me my entire life.

The flight was only three hours, but long enough for me to find trouble. I went to the washroom only to find a bachelor party gathered at the rear of the plane, using the bathroom to snort their coke. I had to be dreaming.

I was offered a line with no payment or dues, and gladly accepted. I railed it on that steel counter with my door locked and occupied. They had given me a fifty-dollar bill, which I learned to roll up really tight for a straw. I snorted my left nostril then my right. Put some drops of water in the tip of my nose and inhaled until I felt my throat numb from the coke dripping down.

Both hands on the vanity I stared directly into the mirror. I realized I was barely showing signs of my beating or rape, and was looking healthy again. I smiled at myself a long time and uttered out loud “You’re home Sky”.

Without a care in the world, happy and eager to continue treatment I plopped back down in my seat and buckled up. So naïve. It took my father 30 seconds to notice my mood change, behavioral shift and physical symptoms of using cocaine. He, after all, had spent the better half of 20 years snorting and drinking daily.

He was beyond furious. Preaching he was devoting everything to helping me, and this is the way I participated in wanting to recover? He told me I had to want it myself; no one can do this for me. His voice didn’t faze me, or his militant tone. He couldn’t hurt me anymore and I was going to play this man like he once did me. I’d be his perfect daughter with no meaning, love him, with zero truth, obey him, like I cared, and respect him, with spit in my mouth.

I cried with the crocodile tears I inherited from him. Swore I was struggling staying clean, this was not a drug I had, and someone on the plane did. “Daddy please, I won’t mess up again, I’m so sorry. Are you going to send me home?” He said no as his breathing softened back down to a normal rhythm. “Your mother is to blame for all this. But listen, I have been where you are and I have a back up plan. You really didn’t think you were just going to shop, play golf and swim, did you?”

Sky, we are going directly to a facility in Texas that the rehab centre recommends. They believe you are struggling with a mental illness and this is a secluded, lock down psychiatric ward: small, with professional help. A four-month admission on a form, meaning the police will arrest you if you get out. You are not allowed visitors, but we will write. You will be safe and can continue to recover.

What could I say? I said nothing.

In my mind I was wondering if life was really going to be okay for me. I went from years of doubt, and then I was tattooed, with horror. Now here I was, miles away from my mother, whom I had still not spoken to since I left and a father who was dropping me off at a facility where no one could hurt me. Starting with him.

It was scary, as one would imagine. There were nine other patients, all men. The closest to my age was 31 and a severe alcoholic. One supervised cigarette an hour was allowed, outside by the exit doors. No groups or meetings, no art therapy or individual counseling, just a psychiatrist and continual trial cocktail of medications. That equates to a lot of down time over the span of four months. We slept in our own rooms with locked doors and intermittent fifteen-minute flashlight nurse checks every night. Daytime we were allowed one crayon and a piece of paper. I felt crazy. Maybe I was. One thing for sure, crazy or not, I was nowhere near John or my Father.

Four months finished, and I an even more defiant teenager, was released from the crazy house. My diagnosis was Rapid Cycling, Bi-Polar illness, and severe Attention Deficit Disorder. I did not know what that really meant, only that a cocktail of prescribed pills kept me calmer.

I should have guessed my father was not available to pick me up when I was released. I called my mother for help. She explained she could not tolerate a drug addict and was not secure having me return home until I completed a treatment program. I hung up and turned around to find myself being introduced to two men that were going to escort me to a Juvenile Detention Centre and Rehab. Back in Minnesota, this time Minneapolis. I was being escorted and tagged as a drug addict who was underage and diagnosed as a potential harm to myself…………………………………………..

kimberly's writings

Writer Wordart

OK so we came to the conclusion I was completely overwhelmed and found promoting my self-published book was harder than writing it.

I wish I could say things are better, but they are not.  However I am making some leeway [kinda]

Whether you want to promote your blog, website, book, articles, or press release these should help;  FREE SITES!

There are numerous free sites to support authors and writers!  If these are repetitive, yuk, I’m hoping each writer will gain something from these links.  I have joined almost all of them and for what it’s worth, yes very time consuming.  But there is no alternative.  OK here we go, oh wait have to plug my books quick.

They can be purchased at smashwords,

softcovers at createspace,

both at amazon,

my website,

lastly authorsden.

I can be reached anytime directly at

OK now…

View original post 379 more words

Necessary links for all Writers

Writer Wordart

OK so we came to the conclusion I was completely overwhelmed and found promoting my self-published book was harder than writing it.

I wish I could say things are better, but they are not.  However I am making some leeway [kinda]

Whether you want to promote your blog, website, book, articles, or press release these should help;  FREE SITES!

There are numerous free sites to support authors and writers!  If these are repetitive, yuk, I’m hoping each writer will gain something from these links.  I have joined almost all of them and for what it’s worth, yes very time consuming.  But there is no alternative.  OK here we go, oh wait have to plug my books quick.

They can be purchased at smashwords,

softcovers at createspace,

both at amazon,

my website,

lastly authorsden.

I can be reached anytime directly at

OK now down to what I hope are some helpful free links that support writers.  The order may be a bit scattered but just the same, the link I hope works.

I have to keep reminding myself my goal is not grades rather publication.

for just women;

awesome site and spotlights all writers;

free word-processing software;

work at home moms forums;

fyi-largest distributor in UK is

popular on-line eBook community readers

Italian eBook readers  or Canada

When promoting your work it goes without saying that all social networking is important and if you email me HERE I would love to spotlight your work and send you a questionnaire.

Also it is a majority suggestion to promote yourself with flyers, emails, postcards, business cards, press release and bookmarks.



to increase traffic use

I Know, but stay with me now!  One of these sites just maybe for you!

to run free ads these are good;

Just a note if you have self-published and want to negotiate some help [especially with PR] google; author assistants.

Free ads directory of new books for independent publishers;

Here is some on-line support for authors;

search engines submissions services;

social book marketing;

I will break here calling this part one.  Please let me know if it is helpful and in the next few days I will publish part two, just as big.

Hope it helps………………


Progress in Procrastination

Image   Yep, to my surprise I am mastering the art of Procrastination.  This all stems from ‘blogging in the dark’ a few days ago when I confessed I was completely overwhelmed with my book promotion.  Things have not changed and I have progressed further into my abyss of ways to which I have convinced myself each day that something else is more important.  Procrastination.

10 Examples of how I do this;

I sit down at my computer to start the process of promoting and….

1-notice my fingernails have chips in the polish and this will bother me typing so I must do my nails

2-I tell myself ‘just one more cigarette’ then I’ll start – my smoking has doubled now and I have developed a cough

3-I will get much more done if I have a nap first, afterwards being much more productive-I have had so many naps I cannot sleep at night.

4-I will be much more productive if I eat something sweet, of course only making me tired

5-Before I move forward I should organize my i phone

6-I’ll just post in the forums for a couple of minutes (roll eyes)

7-OK just one more cigarette

8-I can’t help but obsess over my emails, this my biggest stalling method, checking my accounts and distracting myself contiinually

9-I am going to re-write my promotional plan because this list is messy (enormous plan-re-written four times)

10-I’ll blog because it helps me focus LOL then go to all my sites and check up on them (just did 5 min ago)

*sigh*  oh my,  oops better get to that finger nail polish

What have you developed as a main source to procrastinate?


Blue dye being dropped in a saucer of milk.

Blue dye being dropped in a saucer of milk. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


and so,

she refused to ponder

why she was dry

when water poured from the sky

and lizards scattered for cover

she could not be penetrated

not even by nature

and so she walked with her cane

both hips out of joint

while smoking a menthol

never a worry to be different

bruised ankles and a slippery umbrella handle

kept her mind working

read into that all that you will

she minds not of your opinion

one single droplet

found on pavement

had her mesmerized

wanting to squish it

but could not bend forward

or tumble she would

ugly she truly was

to the degree of scary

side note of an information tidbit

huffed then and proceeded to limp

the garden was wet but still not she

cactus were buried amongst the arrangement

all rooted for future growth

yet many dead, pedals brown

when all should be sketched

charcoal stones dirty from bugs

earths dirt seemingly the cleanest element

must rectify these dead beings

able and ready having not able to get wet

not work but an act of bravery

hips screaming she still persevered

finishing her sculpture of nature by early afternoon

she moved forward to strut her journey

head facing down

no sign of happiness even when she tried

she bitched and moaned

how hard done by was she

not liked by a soul

she loved no one

adored herself

spoke rudely to agitate

yelled at younglings

kicked stray cats

with the power to know

just how to disappear

timing was critical all the time

allow her the space

she will steal it all

listened to everything

so ammunition was ripe

tasted her bad breath with delight

hairy chin as the elderly sport

careless of appearance to delight

seeking refuge in her plastic bags

the cart that stored them was faulty

one wheel flat, another wobbly

held exactly what she needed in life

her skin was plastic

made of colors

torn and stretched

to encase her life

protect her assets

coffin her rubbish

maybe she tasted bitter

maybe not

but onlookers swear she took her shots

hot to rumble anyone

like fried eggs, her center was soft

she led on to new passengers

smoked a pack a day

with black tea stained teeth to prove it

she smiled often to gross someone out

snickered at their reaction

her cart was having a trial

mechanic she was perfection

the cart would soon skateboard again

determined at any thought she lived

every now and again she could be spotted

gluing her shoes to keep her soul

who judge her, how long did she live

those types are delicately snobby

still the water dropped from the sky

yet not touching her one drop

maybe magic held this old woman

maybe fluke attacks to her being

pages of coupons lying to herself

where there is no money one must pretend

seeking refuge in handouts that begged

sought-after compassion to spite her demeanour

kill them she thought at 1st and offering

one that would save her for the next hour

giraffes slowly walk by this rainy day

birds were hiding in towering trees

worms were not afraid

it was them that had to be eaten

to survive the war on water

she left her life a while ago

now just functioning as she must

proud of her anger she moved forward

ate her worms and fixed her cart

in her matrix she was immortal

meeting for nothing

despising the people

even animals large and small

make no apologies

and found herself thirsty

raised her face towards the sky

opened her mouth

it took more than 1 droplet

refreshed she smiled blackening teeth

and turned to stare at a stranger

Graceful Intentions

“It is my pleasure to introduce to you Kimberly Gray our kimberlyslyrics on Hubpages. She likes to say she is a rhyming savant, who she is, and she is so much more. Her writing will enlighten, your senses she will heighten and your awareness she will brighten. Do you need something to read? Want to be taken to places other writers cannot find? Look up kimberlyslyrics and be prepared to be touched.” MF

When I asked Kimberly to send me, a bio this is what she felt was the most important things to share.

The Best I Can Be is Me. 

I have survived too many painful and demoralizing times in my life.  Believe me I seek no pity, remorse, justice or revenge.  Each challenge and trauma turned into a gift over time. Gifts came from every magical delivery. Magic of course, being free, I keep turning into endless experiences…

View original post 1,049 more words

Blogging in the dark!!!!!!

Seems only fitting since I anxiously published my third book this week that being a novel.  This time excited at the prospect I have softcover versions, E books and a video and audiobook in progress.  Very impressive?

Ya right, I feel like a fart in a windstorm, as my recently deceased father would say.

I have been researching for 4 days how an independently published author approaches new book promotions and frankly I have deflated before even starting.

I have truly a vast and simple means of step by step portholes to help publish my book.  Truth is I haven’t even rejoiced in my accomplishment being weighed down so much by “The List”
How can the simplest of mundane and repetitive steps feel so overwhelming when I do indeed want and need to promote my latest book?
This for me is much harder than writing the book.  I keep asking myself why and I’m pretty sure that my feelings are correct.
I am actually shy and insecure to keep writing all these positive, inviting, descriptive, and ever changing posts about myself.  Therefore I freeze.  Even with all my answers organized and living beneath my fingertips.
Having said that, and thank you for letting mr rant my first step is refining and exposing my book on the proper links which I am going too attempt now.
So here will be the first place I will……….
BTW talk about me getting all my ducks in a row,  I would be quite happy if I could just get them to all be in the same pond.
OK here we go
My first Novel, My life as a white, female drug dealer is far from being just a book about dealing.  Our character sky allows us to participate in an addicts  journey many have not known.  She, while some disagreeing, triumphs over challenges which hold all odds against her.  She is a survivor!
All ebooks are at smashwords
all softcover at createspace
Also books available on Amazon
My website is just being built to support other authors
I must push forward.  Well, after a good sleep and conquer promotions which I just know I can?
Kimberlyslyrics on hubpages
Ans Sunnie Day who has teally helped me with such a beautiful blog
My social networking sites can also be found on smashwords
thank you whew! I really needed that rant…..

My life as a white, female drug dealer, chapter One

My life as a white, female drug dealer, chapter One.

My life as a white, female drug dealer, chapter One


Chapter One

Chapter One




What has not killed me in my life, has defined me.
My behaviors, actions and mistakes have defined me more.
My entire life revolved around, selling, buying and cooking drugs.
I never knew I had any other choice.  My name is Sky.

It isn’t hard for me to remember the first time I saw drugs.  It was the very same afternoon I saw a pistol, not like the standard 10 or 12 gauge shotgun Dad had kept at home.  But Dad had been gone and remarried five years by then.

There was a new kid at school. He was popular, adored by all the girls, and the son of a Federal Agent for Law Enforcement, just transferred to our city.  No mother and no reasons offered as to why.

I had no clue why two weeks new to school he asked me to ditch to spend the afternoon with him at his house.  No one would be home and he had some cool cop stuff to show me.  Nothing felt safer than hanging with a policeman’s son.

The rebellious and fearless teenager I was at 14, confidently jumped at such an invitation.  I too was very popular and desired by most of the boys.  I never let on to the rumors that weren’t true, specifically of me being a slut or promiscuous.  I opted to say nothing.

Truth be told, I was a virgin and had no plans in giving up my secret truth by breaking a childhood oath for reasons I prefer not to speak of.

At noon, he came and got me.  His name was John. It could have been any Joe, John or Jack for that matter.  The situation was a reason to get out of school.  I ditched school a dozen times, never caught, but also never anything to do when I did.  Today was going to be an adventure, for real.  Neither of our parents were the wiser, both were working, very busy and not very strict.

It was raining.  I can remember, like any teenage girl, worried that my hair would be a wreck.  Maybe I could ask John to use a blow dryer.  Suppose exposing my vanity this soon may not be cool.  Besides I was viewed as a tomboy and I had to maintain this persona to keep my friends.

Soaking wet, I entered John’s home, a huge bungalow, inner walls lined with cut logs of wood.  Surprising and shocking were the number of guns, displayed in glass cases, hanging on those wood walls.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling way out of my comfort zone.

It was a man’s home, justified by the lack of John ever mentioning his mother, or any form of a mother.  This and the absence of any female belongings.

He pranced around telling me the history of his dad’s guns.  I couldn’t hear him over my own self-consciousness thoughts that my hair was getting frizzy.

He couldn’t hold the excitement any longer to show me the rest of the home.  Starting first with a bolt-lock door into the den. Inside there were huge bricks marked evidence and wads of cash stacked neatly in an open safe.

He said the bricks were his father’s confiscated drug evidence. Mainly heroin and cocaine.  Not mentioning why they were there, I didn’t ask nor really cared to find out.  He took a knife from the desk drawer, stabbed a grey wrapped brick, exposing powder. It was white, and John’s confident offering told me it was cocaine.

There it was.  This was a twofold, potentially awkward situation.  First, I didn’t know why he spooned it out and kept it on the knife.  My expression surely gave up to admitting having never done this before.  Secondly, if I demonstrated fear, he would surely ditch me at school for all the kids to know something, not knowing what he would also make up.

I played it cool; like I understood what he meant by asking me to take a toot.  I said, “Right from the knife? Don’t you get more by taking it other ways?” He laughed and said “Trust me there’s lots here to play with”, then proceeded to snort some from the knife.  I am pretty confident he did so knowing I had no clue what to do.

Without hesitation, the fearless and still innocent naïve girl in me snorted as much off that knife as my lungs could inhale.  I figured I had nothing to lose, only new experiences to gain.  I prayed it wouldn’t make me lose control, but to no avail, it did just the opposite.

The first sensation was that of numbness in my nose and down the back of my throat.  My emotions for the first time in my life were controllable.  My feelings were that of a super-being.  I was happy.  I was not thinking of anything else.  I had no pain of the past, and surely not thinking of any event except that magnificent moment.  Instantly I wanted more.

As John laughed at my approach to this powder, within 30 seconds of snorting it, something inside me changed.  I knew this was the answer to my fears.

Within a minute I wanted to get higher, sustain this buzz to see how and where I could go within this world of ecstasy. This was a new and perfect world, where, anything felt possible.  John was most generous in sharing his father’s work materials.  He playfully invited me to come see his room.  He had the entire basement of the bungalow.  It was huge, even beneath the stairs exposed two secure bars.

Much less affected, I now noticed more gun racks in glass cases.  These all held pistols.  When asked, he said they were gifts from his dad.  I paid no mind to them along with handcuffs, Billy clubs and a few Officer hats.  He cranked Rod Stewart so loud it just enhanced my pleasure trip.

John was acting kinda strange, like he thought he was his father or something.

I only know that what transpired next started without me being aware, continued for what seemed like forever, and ended too late.

Somewhere between accepting more cocaine, feeling my anxiety, at the speed my heart was racing, the tone had instantly changed; I had been dragged and cuffed to the two poles supporting the stairs which would be my focal point for the next half hour.

I, in terror and strung out on coke, firmly told John to fuck off and release me as the cuffs were hurting my wrists.  Music blaring, I couldn’t scream and with just two legs free, I tried, but could not reach to kick him in defense. His response was silent and brought much more anticipated pain.

He handcuffed each leg, to what I do not know, nor remember.  I was bound for the unknown and now crying.  I never believed he was going to do what he did but was in a panic imagining what he would do.  I truly believed he was going to kill me once he stood in my view.

John stood to expose his cop hat, Billy club, two pistols clenched by two hands and that was all he was wearing.  He knelt down resting his right forearm on his right leg, grinned in that kind of way that is a mocking, warning things are going to get ugly.  All he said was:

“Sky, you act like such a lady at school, who knew you were such a whore.  You stole my dad’s drugs, well, now you have to be punished.  I got my Dad’s back.”

He slapped me hard across the face with the back of his hand splitting my left cheekbone open to bleed.  It stung like boiling water.  I stopped crying and tried focusing on anything except what was happening.  Being the daughter of a manipulative genius, some survival traits kicked in.  Besides, I clearly wasn’t dealing with a stable individual.

I wondered if he and his father shared this demonic hobby, or my god, what if he came home and was drawn downstairs by the blaring music.

I loved the band Bay City Rollers.  I closed my eyes and chanted their lyrics in my head continuously.  The coke was wearing off and I could feel my cheek swelling, what a sting.  Come on Sky, you can handle this thug.  He’s just a boy who needs to feel in control. “OK John, fine you got my attention, I am the slut I am known as.  But Baby, this could go a lot easier and certainly more fun if you let me touch you too.”

Once in awhile, even now, I can still smell his skin, 30 years later.  He had refused to un-cuff me.  “Sky, you’re not getting it, I don’t want you to touch me, and frankly I don’t want to touch you either.  See, it is because I have to.  Pretty, popular girls like you make entertaining victims.  All cool and fake, you need to be brought down to size.”

That was one of the scariest thoughts, I weighed 100 pounds, he about 150 just at 14.  Size wouldn’t have mattered with his strength.  His private, well-protected fetish was to torture and I was yet to find out what next.  As a virgin I didn’t know what to expect of sex or rape.  John announced this entire plan was about just that.  His kicks and punches slowly put me in a state of a bruised and bloody catatonic detachment.

I had no strength.  Fractured, weak and semi conscious, I just made sense of his words, the last I could comprehend. “Sky, Sky, Sky, this is going to hurt.  Well, hurt you, but pleasure me.”  He knew I was weak enough to faint, and definitely not have an ounce of energy to fight back.  With that, he unlocked my ankles, now swollen, red and scraped.  Still on my legs he ripped my panties off and spread my legs.

John pressed one gun to my right temple and the second pistol was the start of my life’s sexual pain.  John stuck the pistol in my vagina, then up my vagina.

The first thing to ever enter my vagina was a pistol.  I froze.  I was already in need of medical help, and in incredible pain. I thought I could take no more, but he was just beginning.

I became lost in a moment of desire, a desire for more cocaine.  I clung to this memory, that would scar me for life, and I had to numb its pain.  Numb it like the cocaine did, take away the pain and take me away from reality.  This combination of desire followed me my whole life.  For reasons that only began with John.


© Kimberly Gray



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