Although the thoughts and views in this book seem partial to reality, they are merely fictional characters and are not meant to resemble any true persons. Some of the events described in this book, are adult oriented and graphic. It is not meant to offend or criticize any cultural groups or victims of such heinous crimes. I write this book to be thought provoking, and bring awareness to the types of behavioral modalities, which do exist.

I was running from myself almost all of my life, until he gave me a different reason to run, him! It was three months after my fifteenth birthday; I didn't have much time celebrating towards becoming a woman, until it was all taken away from me. I never did have a chance to experience what all my friends had. Not that I wanted to at that time, I was saving myself for marriage. I knew that whom ever I was going to marry, I was going to have to accept that they had already been intimate before. Still, I knew it would be special. I wanted my future lover to court me, first show me I was truly the only woman on his mind, it would take a long time before I would actually be able to be in a man’s arms. Once he had shown me that he was deserving of my intimacy only then would I feel comfortable to expose my heart to him. My lover would be gentle with me, knowing what I had endured. I would have first fallen in love with him so deeply that I would welcome his every touch, each one would make my heart shiver and yearn for his next.

At age fourteen, I would lie in my bed fantasizing about falling in love someday, and I would write poetry about how this love would blossom into an erotic yet surreal phenomenon.

***

Pink is the color that captures my soul

Not as strong as red, the lovers encode

Soft and subtle a constant tone

So pleasing to the eye the sheets we unfold

Sweet and creamy pink rose petals smother your body

Satin pink rose buds, inside the buds blossoms our love

Seeping threw the folds sweet nectar dew

A mystical vision of sugar plum fairies bathing you

Iridescent bubbles capture this mystical dream

Silvery Pegasus gather and play between the fairies

A pale green lake we bathe in this warm spring day

Emerald green fields full of pink tulips and yellow daffodils

Surrounded by lavender hills,

Here it is safe we can both lay

***

ONE (part sample)

I wanted someone like my father, but without all his rage. My lover would be strong, both physically and mentally, a drive to protect and please. Moreover, work hard to raise a family. I wanted a large family, I often day dreamed about having a large house, and cooking for my family maybe three or four children.

My mother chose to only have me; she said it was because my father was always busy, and she had to do all the work herself, I could only imagine how hard it must have been.

Going back as far as I can recall my father was involved in martial arts. He traveled back and forth to Bogotá, Columbia that is with his counterparts. He was involved in the drug trafficking, of cocaine to and from the United States. He was a bodyguard for one of the larger suppliers. I listened to his conversations he had with his friends, telling the daunting tales of escaping and alluring the police many times.

He would travel in a private plane with his sensei and partner Darren. He would often be gone for weeks at a time.

This meant leaving my mother home to raise me.

When he was home, I tried to spend as much time as I could with him. I missed him dearly.

I loved to go and watch my father while he would spa in the gym, with his sensei and sparing partner. I would sit on his sensei’s lap. I called him uncle sensei I never knew his true name. The gym was upstairs in a private dwelling. Looking from the outside, you would assume it was an apartment. I would walk with my father holding his hand as we walked down this dark alleyway, through a chained gate. We would climb the back stairwell to the third floor; my little legs would be shaking by the time we had reached the third floor. Here there was an open floor planned apartment, with hard wood floors. All that stood from the ceiling was a center support pole. To me it was huge; I had front row seats to the best karate showing there was.

I was too young to have a concept of what they were involved in, they were really training to defend themselves and their sensei need be in a deadly situation. It could get hostile in Bogotá. It was dangerous traveling back into the United States trying to evade the authorities. They used the Karate industry as a cover up for their reasoning for entering to and from the country. They booked competitions this was their ticket into the country and to the wealth of drugs available.

I looked up at my father’s sensei. He looked wise. At the age five I thought sensei, meant he had special powers.

"Sensei, may I take karate lessons"?

"No," he says looking at me, hardly the answer I was looking for.

He wasn’t very tall, he stood maybe 5’ 6" and had long silver hair kept neatly pulled back into a ponytail. He was dressed in a black; every time I saw him, he was in black. I would look deeply into his eyes and watch him as he watched my father with a look of approval.

"Why, am I too young sensei?"

"Well it’s not that but we wouldn’t want you getting involved in this, it is dangerous".

"But I want to learn to defend myself"; I stood and threw some kicks out into the air. He laughed.

"It's up to your father," he says.

I sat patiently I could not wait for dad to finish. "Daddy may I take karate?"

"No he says it's too dangerous."

That would be his final answer, I knew not to push it any further, once my father made up his mind, and it was what it was.

My mother loved me going along, it gave her a retreat to get some of her errands done without having to worry about me tagging with her. My father would object most of the times about me going, but my mother would get upset and he would give in. I guess this meant a change of plans of whatever he originally had planned to do while he was out. My dad did not want me to be influenced, I would latter learn why, although it seemed I became influenced without his knowing or approval.

My mother told my father that she was not going to have any more children because it was not right for him to be always off doing as he pleased, and not fair to her and I. She also gave him an ultimatum, he stops his involvement, or she leaves. He met her half way, he promised to stay in the country to limit his involvement. He knew he could not walk away from all he had seen and done, he had to ease his way out. Nevertheless, the money was good.

They began running the family business, Plumbing and Heating Services, which had been in the family for over forty years. However, it was not easy to find good reliable help. My father went through many helpers, most were lazy, and some had a liking for "sticky fingers" my father called it. My father had a rule about that; if he saw a dime on the walkway, he would not pick it up.

"If it's not ours," he would say, "you leave it there" he would lecture me about not touching anything that did not belong to me.

"There is nothing worst than a crock," he would say,

"The word of the customer is what keeps us in business, you give bad service, it gets around."

If my father suspected someone wasn't honest, he would fire them immediately. This coupled with his bad temper, made finding good help a challenge.

Helder and Tony started to work for the business, and they learned quickly that if they were respectful and could put up with my fathers temper, they would be accepted, and taught everything they needed to know.

I looked at Helder as an older brother I never had. He worked for the business for several years. Although, often times nothing could be done right for my father I could see the frustration that built up.

"You guys goofed off too much today," he would say. Even though they really had not, they were trying to release the tension in the air. They would play fight in the yard, when they were supposed to be cleaning the trucks. Overall, he was fair with the guys. Nevertheless, when my father would rage towards them, I felt what they felt. I guess this was what the connector was. My Father treated them as though they were family, he talked to them the same, and got mad at them the same when they did something wrong. My father fired Tony after the first year, a case of the "sticky fingers." He had an addiction to feed, and his paycheck wasn't enough to feed an addiction. I don't think anything was enough to feed this bottomless pit of desire for heroin. Tony was steeling the copper and cashing it in for himself. My father kept a barrel in the back yard. After every job, the scrap copper went into the barrel. Everyone knew this was divvied up at the end of the month.

With Helder being his only helper now, he relied on me more to help with jobs and cleaning up the trucks and supply room.

I started to sense something was different about Helders' attitude towards me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I couldn't make out what it was that made him seem different recently. I didn't know much about his personal life, and I didn't want to know either. All I knew was what my parents spoke about, I would ease drop on there conversations all the time. I knew that he liked to use drugs, and that he has a girlfriend who has a shady past. I didn't want to hear any more.

I was always leery about men I was not sure if it was my insecurities or if something really had changed about Helder that I was sensing early on. I thought it might be because, I had heard something personal about him, and now viewed him differently, in his true light. I would now have to scratch his name off my list, the list of decent men I had met in life, and this list dwindled and was near extinction. I started to conclude that maybe this was how all men were. I hardly contributed it to being abused as a child.

All my fears started as a young child, my father’s best friend diddled me starting as far back as I can remember, the age four. It was probably earlier, but I was unable to remember or did I want to open any more doors to find out. I had a hard enough time closing the doors that were already stuck open. I often reflected back into my earlier years of life to see where things had gone wrong, and if I could have changed what inevitably came to be.

His name is Darren, he is about 5 foot 5 and he is a heavy cocaine user. He had dirty blond hair, with hazel eyes. He was my father’s partner in crime. I could tell when he was drunk, or high. They smoked pot right in the house. I would act as though I was busy playing in the other room; here I learned what drugs were. My father would make me leave the room when it was "time for the adults to talk" is what he called it. I had a playroom in the front closed in porch, I could smell the burn of the marijuana seeping into the front entry. The scent raised my curiosity further, I would peek through the curtains that hung from the window watching as they got high these times in the 1970's that was a normal occurrence.

Any chance Darren got he would make me sit on his lap, when no one was in the room he would rub my legs and he would rub my private parts and often time he went further. I was too little to know it was wrong, but I know I did not like how it made me feel. I told my mother once but she didn't understand exactly what I was saying, I was too young to explain to her the emotions I was feeling, and to describe to her what he was doing that was wrong, I didn’t know for sure if it was wrong. In my mind, I felt I had told, although in actuality I had not told enough. It continued for a long time. Until I started to get older and I learned to avoid him, and got pushy with him. When Darren came by the house to work on projects, I would disappear. If he looked at me I looked the opposite way, I made it obviously clear I was avoiding him. He would try to corner me, I became sly, I sensed him coming and I would shift towards an exit. I wouldn’t let him touch me at all. The oddest thing about the whole situation was we had never spoke about it. I avoided all conversation with him, and didn’t care to engage him in any way. He had conditioned me in many ways. I closed doors to my emotional side; he had psychologically damaged me to the point, that he was able to manipulate me in many ways. As I got older, oddly enough he lost interest in fondling me. Instead, he started to use me to traffic his products. I guess the mentality behind this was a minor wouldn't take a punch the same as an adult would from the cops, and they would never suspect a child would be dealing either. I hardly looked the part of a dealer, I had long strawberry blonde hair, and I looked how an innocent child should look. Narcotics’ dealing was a huge industry and I was dealing large quantities.

He had me pushing cocaine, and marijuana. Often times he would stop by the house, and his way of getting me away from the house was to offer me a ride on his Harley. I already new that was the cue and I was not to refuse ride offers. If I refused, I had already learned there would be consequences, and he would torture me. When I say torture, I mean he would subject me to uncomfortable situations. His pet tarantula being one of these horrid memories I had. One night he came to the house with a glass fish tank, he said he wanted me to care for his pet tarantula. I sat on my legs on the floor next to the coffee table; I peered into the tank and watched as this hairy spider crawled on a branch. At this time I was not afraid of spiders, I had often carried them around the yard. However, he suddenly had the spider out of the tank and crawling around on my arm he told me to sit still and let it crawl all over my body, he told me if I moved it would bite me, and I would swell up like a balloon. He started to play mind games with me. He asked me, "do you know what happens to little girls who don't do as they are told?" and I replied, "no what happens?" He responded, "don’t do as I say and you will find out, little girls are worth a lot of money in Bogotá, especially pretty little girls like you." I started to recall some of the storied I had overheard my father tell my mother as they lied in bed at night, thinking I could not hear them, I remembered my father describing how demeaning they treated some woman, and tortured them.

Therefore, instead of fighting it I would accept the ride offer. I would climb on the back of his bike and taken to the drop location. The drop location most of the times was a crowded parking lot. I would stand there and wait for a car to pull up. I never knew what the car was going to look like. I would hand them the bag, which if anyone ever asked me what was in the bag, I was to tell them it was scallops. He was a scallop fisherman and the outer layer of the sack was a bag of scallops.

The buyer would take the bag and hand me an envelope. The first time they handed it to me unsealed I opened it to see what was inside the fat manila envelope I had been peddling for so long.

I had never seen large sums of money before, this scared me, and I never touched it in fear of accusations of steeling it.

Darren would swing back and pick me up on the Harley; he would take me back home, and usually hang out with my father afterwards.

This never really took long, maybe half hour in total.

Darren stored his motorcycle at my parent’s house in the barn; I guess he only used the motorcycle for this reason I never saw him ride it otherwise. My parents must have viewed this as a man they trusted, he was interested in brining me for a joy ride, and something most kids would look forward to doing. I never disclosed to them what was going on, I always thought in my mind he would be shipping me off away from my parents. He had me brainwashed.

His dog, Kilo would be waiting at my house for our return. I would look forward to seeing Kilo; he would greet me at the door. I would give him half of my lunch and play with him for hours, till Darren would leave, I hated seeing Kilo go, I wondered if he too was abused by Darren. I swear that dog understood everything I told it. I told Kilo all of my deepest thoughts and secrets. About how much I hated Darren. Moreover, all the awful things he did to me. Dogs can sense, humans fear. I would hug him and pet his back, and whisper in his ear. He would shake his head to the left and kiss my face, often times licking my tear .I know Kilo sensed my fear when Darren would come near me.

Darren had been drinking and smoking pot all afternoon. He was quiet high. He decided to leave and Kilo would not come to him, kilo would not leave my side. It was as though Kilo had made a decision to stay with me and not obey him any longer.

"Come on you stupid mutt," he yells.

I hugged him, "he’s not a stupid mutt," I said angrily

"Come on Kilo," he says through his teeth clenched tightly. Still Kilo didn’t budge.

Darren stepped in to grab him by the back of the neck, Kilo crouched down in fear, I lunged for him to protect him, I would have given my life before I let him abuse Kilo as he had me.

I hovered on top of Kilo, and looked up at Darren, my lips tightly closed, my strawberry blonde hair sprawled over Kilos face.

"Fine," he says, "fine, you want the disobedient mutt you keep him."

He stormed off.

Kilo did not have a mean bone in his body but I knew that if Darren had attempted to grab him, he would have lashed out, because of wanting to protect me. I was not going to let that happen, a mean dog would be put to sleep in my father’s eyes. I would not let that display happen.

Kilo was a mixed breed; he was a medium sized dog, with long multicolored hair. I had a different colored bandana for him for each day of the week. Kilo followed me everywhere I went, and always showed unconditional love.

He slept in my bed at night and waited for me to get out of school in the afternoon. My mother would let him out, and he would wait right where the bus always stopped.

He would walk with me back to the house. He was highly intelligent, he responded to several commands, eyes- meant follow me with your eyes but do not move, attack-, I used that one on my father although he attacked in a playful manor, he new the difference. Darren had probably taught him these commands to protect his stash and it was obvious his name was in representation of what Darren was about, kilo's of cocaine.

Kilo started to stray every so often. He would go off for long periods, and return all dirty.

"Dad why does he take off he never did this before?" My father laughed, "looks like Kilo found a girlfriend."

"You’ll have to give him a bath, you’re not sleeping with me all dirty," I replied as I looked down at him. He had a sad look on his face. I bathed him and hugged him, I felt bad about scolding him. It really was not his fault, an animal instinct my father called it. We had plans to have him neutered.

The next day I went to school, when I returned on the bus, Kilo was not there.

I thought my mother had kept him inside the house since he was running all around town and returning dirty. I got in the house and called him. He did not come.

My father returned from a job, he would often pop in and check on me since my mother had to go back to work after her lunch break.

"Daddy he’s missing again."

"He’ll come back, I told you he has a girlfriend."

That night Kilo never returned home. I cried myself to sleep looking at the knotty pine walls of my room; I could see a knot in the wood that resembled him.

My father broke the news to me that a car had hit Kilo, up on the main road; he must have been trying to cross, and was swiped.

I cried so hard I hyperventilated. My father held me, and said

"I'll buy you another dog."

"I don't want another dog I want Kilo." I was eight years old; this was the greatest loss I had yet experienced. It took me many years to get over this loss. To me Kilo was not only a dog that loved me unconditionally, he was the only way I could release all my fears and sorrows. Kilo was the only one that listened. That night I lit my mattress on fire. I found some matches in my fathers draw and I hid under my covers flicking one by one, and watching the lit matches hit the sheets near my feet. Starved from oxygen they quickly went out. I lit one more and swung the comforter off my head, it ignited the bed, my father walking up and down the hall sniffing, he couldn't find were the smell of sulfur was coming from. He suddenly discovered the fire on my bed, and quickly distinguished it. I was sitting in the corner of my room still with the evidence of matches in my hands. He did not know what to say to me, "what's the matter with you," he yells. He screamed for my mother, she ran upstairs, and found me crying, I was confused, I had no explanation why I had set the fire. I didn’t even know for my own peace in mind.

My mother always thought I was skittish around men, and this was my nature. I grew up feeling out of control and confused. I didn’t know how to express my feeling, and kept them bottled up inside. Now a teenager, I wrote allot of poetry to try to express my thoughts and feelings and release the pain and anger I felt. I kept my poetry journal under my waterbed mattress. Here I thought it would be safe from my parents’ eyes.