Abuse: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  Defeated by the ugly facts, I sigh. “Yes.”

  “As a child you are proud of his admiration and attention. You are his son—the oldest child, and he tells you that you are special, no? And so, many times you sought him. You made a choice. You elected to go to him, whenever you wished to play,” he says, speaking as if it’s an undeniable truth.

  He’s right.

  I see it in André’s face—he recognizes my dismayed expression. My body trembles, I can’t stop it now. I close my eyes, unable to meet his penetrating gaze.

  “It is this that shames you,” he says softly.

  Eyes shut tight; I inhale a deep breath and exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Long moments pass while I struggle to regain my composure.

  Just like Sophie, I made a choice. Except, I made that choice not once, but repeatedly, again and again, over a period of years.

  I’m riddled with life-draining bullets now. I feel like shit and my head’s in a spin. André’s right, of course. It humiliates me. The fact that I was an innocent child at the time and didn’t know any better, doesn’t seem to lessen my guilt.

  I had sex with my father.

  I didn’t protect my brother.

  I’m not gay, in fact even the idea of seeing a naked man makes me feel physically ill. And still I have to fight to keep my eyes off other men’s dicks because of this creepy, unwanted compulsion of mine.

  Damn it to hell, I’m such a sick pervert.

  Is that where this relentless plague of guilt comes from? The choices I made as a child? My fear that I’m not normal? That I’m not an ordinary human being? That maybe, in fact, I really am a monster?

  These sordid secrets darken every part of me—mind, heart and soul.

  I open my eyes and meet my counselor’s shrewd gaze. There’s a bottomless well of unexpected emotion hotly burning in his dark eyes.

  Surprised, I flinch as it strikes me as obvious and as illuminating as the morning sun. This is the first time I’ve ever seen my composed and utterly controlled counselor angry. But he’s not just angry—he’s furious.

  André’s looking at me… and I don’t think he likes what he sees.

  Chapter 9.

  “When we treat children's play as seriously as it deserves, we are helping them feel the joy that's to be found in the creative spirit. It's the things we play with and the people who help us play that make a great difference in our lives.”

  ― Fred Rogers

  ~~~

  His lips are pulled down in a frown and he raises his voice to me for the very first time. “Yet it should not shame you! Non!” A strong volley of French flows from his mouth.

  He stands up now and begins pacing. His arms gesticulate wildly, as he spews out a torrent of furious and incomprehensible French words. I do recognize “merde,” which means “shit,” and “C’est vraiment des conneries!” which means, “That’s really bullshit!” The man is clearly pissed off.

  André’s angry. He’s upset. He gives way to pent up fury. In all the months I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him like this before.

  I sit back in surprise, shaken out of the vile imagery of the past.

  His emotions warm me. Something that’s wound into a vicious knot inside of me loosens as I watch him struggle with his passions. André’s own feelings have finally overcome him.

  So. He’s not always as cool and in control as I thought.

  Taking a long drink of water, André sits down beside me once more. There’s a sheen of sweat on his face, and his manner is no longer one of ‘calm counselor.’ He looks ashamed of himself after this emotional explosion.

  “Grant, pardon,” he says, his voice low and contrite. “I find myself distressed when there is such a vast disparity of power. It is injustice that I find intolerable. If you please, forgive me.”

  André’s accent has thickened, he sounds more French than ever. I spread my hands in a show of ‘whatever’ and my lips curl in genuine amusement. “You’re forgiven. It was a nice break for me to see you upset for a change.”

  “Vraiment?” he says, and his dark eyes glow with pleasure. “D'accord, eh bien! Then I am satisfied to have reacted.”

  I say nothing but my smile sits easily upon my lips.

  “Oui, oui, I was most upset. For the counselor it is not recommended to have an emotional response such as this, you perceive. It is a failing, of course.” He throws his hands in the air. “But me? I am only human.”

  I throw my head back and laugh out loud. Human my ass.

  André’s ego would make an Egyptian pyramid look small.

  He smiles at me good-naturedly, not at all disturbed that I’m laughing at him. Once I wind down, he returns to the subject.

  “Now think my friend,” he says. “What chance would a child have to counter such mastery? To fight against an adult’s pre-conceived, planned and carefully enacted purpose? You were an innocent. He intentionally trained you to behave this way. You were a child who played a game with his father. You did this to please him, even if there was discomfort at times, yes?

  I wince because André isn’t stupid. He’s guessed everything. He knows the games pedophiles play.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  “You did not have the ability to say no.”

  “Not until I was almost twelve.”

  “Just so. Yet, this was simply a game you were playing. Such is as natural as eating or breathing to a child. You sought your father for fun, for pleasure, and for adult attention and approval—nothing more. While he…” André’s jaw tightens. “… he committed the blackest of sins, playing a part as evil as those running Auschwitz. Your father’s actions were the greatest betrayal of all.”

  A gentle, cool breeze blows against me as a long moment passes. The comforting peace and near silence is filled with only wind, soft, rustling leaves and bird sounds. What André has told me is oddly freeing.

  As a form of exoneration, his words aren’t half-bad.

  “You are a good person,” André says, with barely stifled anger as his hands curl into fists. “If you must be ashamed, find something to be justifiably ashamed of!” His fists slam into his thighs with brutal force.

  He jumps to his feet, apparently unable to stay seated while filled with such fury. “But do not feel shame for this!”

  His anger is so completely unexpected and out there, I laugh out loud.

  After a startled moment, his whole body shakes as he laughs along with me. For me, a lifetime of pent up negative emotions suddenly turn into something ridiculous. What in the world is so damn funny? Nothing, but I find I can’t stop.

  André sits back down. Together, we both hold our guts and choke with laughter until tears run down our faces. My stomach is sore but the growing tension that was in my chest no longer constricts me. It isn’t funny—but it really, really is. Why are we cracking up?

  For a moment, I wonder if André became angry on purpose. Somehow I can’t help but imagine that he did. His fury certainly lightened the mood. Laughing together is deeply satisfying, in a strangely lighthearted and frivolous way.

  A special kind of person does this job. Someone who is uniquely crazy.

  That long burst of gleeful humor has done me some good. I feel much better. I needed the release.

  When we both get our overpowering laughter under control, André goes right back to work. With careful prompting, he gets me to speak about my secret life with my father. Events from my past, even ones I’d intentionally forgotten, come to the surface.

  I find myself telling him exact details, which he pries out of my usually guarded tongue—not with a crowbar, but with clever and calmly inquiring expertise.

  When I sit silently, too embarrassed to speak, André’s soothing voice asks, “Is there something you feel I would not understand?”

  If that doesn’t get me talking, he prompts me by giving me reassurances like: “This memory you struggle with, do you fear it will make me think less of you? Je vous assure, I hold yo
u in the highest regard. Nothing can change my opinion.”

  André’s serene yet attentive approach, combined with the way he never reacts negatively to anything I say, wears me down. While I have long periods of saying nothing and trying to avoid the truth, I find it’s easier simply to tell him what he wants to know.

  I take in a deep breath and say, “Even without an ability to ejaculate, I had my first climax when I was nine years old.” I’m staggered, because telling him grim details is becoming so much easier.

  The grin he beams me is wide and sincere. “Bon, I thank you for telling me. Comme c’est merveilleux—this is wonderful! You are doing so very well, my friend.”

  My lips tug up slightly. My smile feels worn, tired and very faint, but it’s there.

  “I have counseled many who, as boys and girls as young as five, also were taught to climax,” he tells me. “Carnal knowledge is not meant for those so young and yet, once ‘Pandora’s Box’ of sexual awareness is open, a child cannot unlearn what they know.”

  I feel like a dishrag, damp and sweaty from heat, emotion and excruciating effort. Every sexual secret I’m aware of has been wrung out of me. I find myself physically and mentally beat by the end of our discussion.

  Worn-out, bone tired but somehow lighter.

  Relieved. Unburdened. Freed.

  With the flourish of a magician, he shakes out a tablecloth and pulls out three courses of delicious French cuisine from his Dr. Who ‘Tardis’ backpack. He places every dish with creative care. For André, artistry and eating go together.

  My lips curve up in a tired smirk and I shake my head.

  French people.

  I suspect the ingestion of food is actually a sacred religious practice for the French. Cooking is an art form and dining is an experience and a ceremony that takes time and single-minded focus. For the French, every meal’s a special occasion that should never, ever, be rushed.

  André cocks an eyebrow and his eyes meet mine. “Something amuses you, mon ami?”

  I gesture toward the beautifully presented lunch laid out before us. “I’m just appreciating this whole culinary setup you’ve got going on here.”

  “Très bon! Mon Dieu, you have worked very hard this morning. Now you are hungry, no?” he says, while removing the cork from some no doubt costly red wine. He has ice tea for me, a Southern drink his chief provides. I’m an alcoholic and can’t drink, but that doesn’t stop my counselor from enjoying a glass. I have to like him for this. Why should he act differently in front of me?

  “I sure am. Thank you, André.”

  “You are most welcome. Bon appétit!” he says with a happy, boyish grin.

  My mouth waters as I dish out Niçoise Salad with grilled tuna & potatoes.

  Even though I ate a big breakfast, I find I’m utterly starving and move on to a second helping of food. Why is this? It’s as if my sordid secrets carried actual physical weight. With the skeletons gone, body and mind, I feel hollow and strangely empty inside.

  My gaze slides to André. I watch as he sits comfortably, sipping wine and savoring this beautifully presented meal. Every ounce of his being is absorbed in the sight, smell and taste of gourmet enjoyment.

  I just smile and shake my head.

  If you visit Paris and see people eating as they walk, you can bet every penny you have that they’re tourists. No respectable Frenchman or woman would be caught dead engaging in such damning epicurean sacrilege.

  My unconventional counselor is overjoyed to see me eating and drinking with gusto. He assures me I’ll feel much better after I do.

  He’s right.

  What a whack job. Sometimes I wonder if André’s unexpected and offbeat behavior is a French thing. The guy’s a crack up. He’s jumping out of his skin he’s so pleased. André’s like an over-exuberant puppy with a box of new toys and a room full of kids to play with.

  The man’s utterly delighted with me.

  Right this minute I feel as if I’ve earned an entire book of gold stars.

  “Come," he says cheerfully, after we eat and tuck everything away. He slips his arms into his much lighter backpack, shrugging it on. “Have you ever heard it said, that the most effective way to overcome temptation is to yield to it?” he asks me as he starts walking.

  To my surprise, he takes a left turn, moving off the trail.

  My lips draw down into a frown of concentration. “No.”

  “It is true.”

  “OK.”

  We’ve covered a lot of mental and emotional miles—this has been a very big day. I’m exhausted and I feel as if I’m totally brain dead. Unable to hold a single conscious thought, I obediently follow him.

  “This persistent compulsion you have in wanting to, yet not wanting to look at penises,” he says while making towards a small group of trees. “Now that we have the basis for the problem—a pattern set when you were a child—such will resolve. There is more to discuss, oui, oui, much more, but we have made a most auspicious start,” he says.

  André’s back to talking in calm, professional counselor mode.

  “Toward this purpose, you must once more choose,” he adds. “Life is all about choices, n'est-ce pas? The difficulty comes from shame, guilt and indecision. But of course, this is all connected with the confusions in your childhood. For now, let there be no remorse. Let all be blameless curiosity.”

  Huh? I’ve been staring at the ground, watching where I place my feet as I walk, but some tendril of awareness pushes through my weary mental fog.

  I raise my gaze to see André’s broad shoulders. He’s stopped just in front of me. His head turns towards me and our eyes meet.

  “A penis is only a penis,” he says. “It is a normal part of the human male body—no more, no less. It simply is. There need be no shame, no guilt. You must decide to look—this time of your own free will.”

  I notice he’s standing in front of a tree. He unzips his jeans. “I must urinate, mon ami, so if you please, feel free to look at mine!”

  Chapter 10.

  “Prohibition is the trigger of crime.”

  ― Ian Fleming

  ~~~

  Stan Huber

  Drug abuse is a global problem. Cocaine is the second most trafficked illegal drug in the world. Over a 40 billion dollar per year industry, it now exceeds Columbia's top export, coffee.

  The United States remains the biggest consumer of cocaine worldwide. One out of four Americans between the age of 26 and 34 has used cocaine in their lifetime.

  Rich, well-educated, employed people in America are obsessed with cocaine. It’s expensive, it’s inexplicably glamorous and it provides a sexy kind of energy so the user is able to party all night long.

  Cocaine is the unqualified drug of choice for those with money to burn—not that coke is burned. Cocaine’s inhaled in powder form through the nose, or serious users may inject it.

  Crack cocaine is cheap, nasty and of a much lower purity than cocaine. It can’t be snorted up the nose or injected, it must be burned, that is to say, smoked.

  Coke, snow, blow… cocaine goes by many different names. Twenty-six-year-old Stan “The Man” Huber, knew them all.

  Stan Huber was the youngest of Jack and Joanne Huber’s three sons. Joanne died suddenly and unexpectedly from an aneurysm two years earlier. Besides causing genuine grief to what was now an all-male family, her death imposed a financial burden on Stan.

  Stan had been Mrs. Huber’s favorite. Her husband was a big man, with big feet, big hands and a big square jaw—looking somewhat like Buzz Lightyear. Her two older sons took after their dad, but Stan looked like her. Tall and slim with delicate features and large green eyes, set in a round face—Stan had a sweet and honest appearance.

  Stan took full advantage of his looks and his mother’s preference, or perhaps things just worked out that way. For whatever reason, every month, like clockwork, Stan’s mother slipped her youngest extra cash.

  Which he promptly spent on cocaine.

&n
bsp; Consequently, directly after her untimely demise, Stan experienced a cash flow problem.

  Stan’s father, and his father’s father, worked in the banking industry. Both of his older brothers also worked in banks. Unfortunately, Stan hated banking. He’d graduated with a degree in accounting that his dad had pushed him into, but he found work with numbers terribly boring.

  He was a people person. He’d eventually settled down as an accountant, managing the finances of a number of small businesses.

  Over the last two years, since his beloved mother's death, Stan had been supplementing his income and his love of cocaine, by distributing the product from time to time, as required. His contact, with whom he met monthly, was a quiet man called “Skinny.” Skinny was a member of the Banditos Motorcycle club. He was a thick, stocky guy with a British accent.

  Stan figured he’d gotten the nickname Skinny as a joke.

  The Huber’s were a wealthy family and long-term members of the local country club. Stan thought hanging out at the club was kind of cool because he knew everyone and the food was excellent. Also, if you buy a wine locker and store your wine there, they supply a giant spread of snacks that never stopped all night.

  Stan spent a lot of his free time at the country club, mainly because it served as a great place to network. While there, he easily and discreetly unloaded cocaine. His purpose wasn’t to find new customers or accept payments. Stan’s job was simply to deliver the product to customers who’d purchased in advance.

  While at the country club, handing over small baggies of white powder wasn’t questioned or even noticed. Money never changed hands, which was just as well in Stan’s case. With his financial issues, he might’ve been tempted to steal some. That wouldn’t have been a wise move. It’d be hazardous to his health for a start.

  The delivery business was a “no cash” game. It worked like this: a customer would put in an order for an amount of cocaine and pay on-line in advance. Skinny would text details to Stan, who’d then deliver. Stan only delivered to rich customers who lived in his area.