The Last Time
By: Caden McDonald
Caden, a survivor, has strongly and graciously submitted his poetry to be published this month--artistically sharing his personal experience, his strength, and his voice. This poem, "The Last Time," reflects on a family get-together, where his abuser was present--and his decision that this time, would be the last time.
T/W (Trigger Warning): Brief description and direct discussion of sexual abuse
This can't be real. Walking in, Darren's new house smelled like turkey and different kinds of pies, some that I'm sure were bought instead of baked, like my grandmothers always claim. Either way, the warmth of the house, both in the sense of temperature and love, was overwhelming--about 10 people were stuffed in my uncle Darren's new house, and although they were all very nice and excited to see us, my brother and I went to sit outside. The rain
was calming, and as the pitter-patter of the large drops of water hitting the overhead umbrella got heavier, so did the laughter. My brother and I walked out from under the umbrella and got soaking wet, something I would soon learn to regret (I had no change of clothes there.) We ate dinner, chewing and talking through bright smiles,
the reality of my abuse disappearing like the
last piece of my great-grandmother's casserole.
After dinner, questions arose about our education, as it was different than many other high schools'. Everything that was asked had a simple answer, but still, my voice was, time and time again, caught in my throat. My hands were numb as I collected the plates from the table and brought them to the kitchen. Afterwards, the majority of the adults stayed at the table and talked about Trump, a conversation I definitely did not want to get involved in. My brother and I went to the living room to watch Jeopardy! and eat some of the small candies that were on the coffee table. I sat by myself in a chair near the TV, as far away from the kitchen as I could, but his eye contact was more than enough to make my skin crawl. As the contestants on TV began giving their answers, I found mine: I wasn't going to live like this anymore. Randy stomped in, his heavy work boots making the ground shake and my heart pound. He asked me the
time, and I told him: 7:07 PM.
I looked at him and smiled, offering him a piece of candy that I had gotten off of the table. I reached out to him, my hand shaking. He chuckled at my fear. He accepted the chocolate and sat down in the chair next to mine. I told him that once this episode was over, we were going to go home, back to my dad's house,
but he didn't believe me. "Cory," he called to my dad in the next room, "when are you guys
leaving?" My dad looked at him and asked, "Why? Do you need me? I thought Miranda had another dinner tonight." Randy laughed, turned to everyone else in the kitchen, and said, "No, I just wanted to spend more time with the kiddos," with a slight, but obvious wink at me out of the corner of his eye. Everyone else agreed with him, citing something about not getting to see us enough, missing out on our lives.
He sat his hand on my thigh in a way that wouldn't call attention to the situation. I smiled and sat up straight, trying not to do anything to set him off. He took the remote and changed the channel, turning it to Paul Blart: Mall Cop, and he reminded me that this was one of my favourite movies. I told him he was right, he's "always right about" me. I stood up and walked (not too fast, not too slow) to the kitchen, asking my grandma if we could go shopping on Saturday, and she very excitedly agreed. Randy stood up and followed me into the kitchen, sitting down at the table next to his girlfriend, Miranda. I wasn't staying in the kitchen, and my step-mom, Alexa, told me that she
didn't want me to spend any of my money, and quickly reached into her purse to find something for me to spend, but at that my grandma scoffed, amused. "Of course, I'll pay for her! My Katie-girl's leaving, I have to get something for her! Whatever she wants!" Alexa laughed and conceded. Everything was okay. I was fine. People here love me, I
know that. It's easy to remember that--and see it--when everyone is around, but when I was alone with him, nothing could be okay. Two can be as bad as one, he always told me. "You don't ever need to get a boyfriend; I'll take care of you. Don't worry. I love you."
All of it was--and is--a lie, and it always will be.
It is easier to understand more than ever, especially as I age and I can understand that this wasn't normal, and it wasn't something I had to go through to "be a better person."
I'm good without him. And I'm never going to see him again.
This was the last time, but he didn't know it.
