by Thalia Lake
Jessica Watkins Presents
Pain Lived, Love Found II: Sarah’s Story
Thalia Lake
Copyright © 2015 by Thalia Lake
Published by Jessica Watkins Presents
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Without limiting the right under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Before You Read…
I want you to know that there are subject matters discussed in this book that some may find to be disturbing or not to their liking:
Rape
Incest
Drug and alcohol abuse
Strong sexual love scenes
None of these scenes were written gratuitously. They were written because they are key to telling Sarah’s story. As with Pain Lived, Love Found, my goal in writing these stories is to encourage others to seek help and to know there are better days on the horizon. Domestic violence, sexual violence, mental abuse, drug and alcohol abuse, and violence towards children are all very real topics and realities for so many - yet few are willing to talk about it. I pray this book opens up the dialogue and moves people to get help or help others.
Sincerely,
Thalia Lake
Dedication
I dedicate this book to all the survivors of abuse, no matter what kind. You are strong, you are worthy of love. Keep fighting, keep inspiring. Never give up.
Acknowledgments
To my loving husband and kids, I do this for you. To Mandy Robinson – I’m so glad I found you, hun! You’re stuck with me now! Thank you for your guidance and help. Keep teaching me; it’s only making me better.
Chapter One – My Life (Sarah)
Life has no meaning without love or family. I didn’t always feel this way because my family isn’t a warm-and-fuzzy family. If I had to describe what it was like to grow up in my family using one word, it would be painful. Pain took what little joy I had as a child and left me a lifeless shell. I used that pain in destructive and selfish ways and eventually, that pain almost killed me. For years I hated myself and my life. I was the best there was at pretending, putting on this front for the world that nothing bothered me, as though I were this carefree and happy person. In reality, I was hurting and constantly crying on the inside. I wanted help, I needed help, but I didn’t know how to go about getting it. I was afraid, deathly afraid of judgment, rejection, and being tossed aside as someone who was unworthy of love or forgiveness. Instead, I continued on my destructive path not caring who I hurt, and not caring that I was hurting myself.
My mother, Betty Jean Paris, is quite religious and I always found it funny that she named me Sarah. I wish I was as wholesome as Sarah was in the Bible. But, I’m far from it. My life isn’t perfect, and I’ve made many terrible mistakes, but I’ve finally gotten to the point where I no longer wear my guilt like a scarlet letter branded on my chest. Trust me, it took me a long time to get to this point. Let me tell you my story.
Being the oldest of six children is a lot of pressure. So much is expected of you right off the bat and you have no one to lean on but yourself. All my parents ever did was fight, and it was always about my father’s cheating. Screaming, yelling, cursing, and physical fights became normal in my world because it was all I was ever exposed to. Even when my siblings and I were ushered to our room and told not to come out, we knew what was going on. We always knew. My sister Carly and I are barely a year apart and we were instantly glued to each other’s side. I am the dominant one in the relationship, and not just because I’m older. Carly is naturally submissive and always wants everyone to get along. She’s the peacemaker and a people pleaser. That’s why it’s easy for someone like me with a stronger personality to dominate her at times. Carly will have her moments when she stands up to me, but for the most part I tend to get my way. I love my sister to pieces; there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. She’s had my back more than anyone else in this world, even when I didn’t deserve it.
My parents, Johnny Paris, Sr. and Betty Jean Paris, are a piece of work - and that’s putting it mildly. My mother and I will always rub each other the wrong way because we are too much alike. We’re both extremely selfish, sensitive, and have very low self-esteem. It amazes me that I can now admit this about myself. Years ago I would have never admitted to being so weak when I’ve become so used to putting on a convincing façade of being strong. I’m also the spitting image of my mother, which also irritated me when I was a teenager because people always asked if we were sisters. Don’t get me wrong, my mother is a beautiful woman, even now in her sixties. I can only hope that I inherit her non-aging genes.
When it came to nurturing and protecting her children, my mother failed miserably. She allowed our father to do unspeakable things to my siblings and me, and to herself. My father’s constant verbal abuse tore me apart, especially as a teenager. I felt worthless and stupid because he always told me that’s what I was. Carly received all of the praise for being smart and always getting straight A’s. “Why can’t you be smart like your sister Carly?” is what I heard on a regular basis from Johnny Paris. I heard it so much that I began to resent Carly even though I knew it wasn’t her fault. Learning didn’t come easy for me. I had to study hard, much harder than Carly ever did, and I always tried my best. My “best” resulted in B’s and C’s, but not the A’s that Carly saw. Therefore, my best, unfortunately, was never enough for my father. His constant disappointment in me and put downs caused me to internalize my pain. Soon I began to starve myself and then purge on junk food which resulted in me going up and down in my weight. I came to like myself skinny and would purposely eat like a bird to maintain my thin frame. I also battled bouts of deep depression that caused my hair to fall out at times. In a nutshell, I was a mess during my teens.
Talking to my mother about my problems was pointless because she and my father were at the root of those problems, and she made it clear that she would never leave him, not even for the safety and well-being of her children. It amazes me that no one - parents, teachers, church - thought to send me to therapy. My mother’s solution to any problem was to pray about it and leave it in God’s hands. I believe in God, and I believe in prayer; but sometimes you need more than prayer. I certainly could have used therapy with all of the things I endured.
As a child I developed early physically. When I was in the fifth grade I had the biggest breasts of all the girls in my school. I was short and petite and I felt like I had the breasts of Dolly Parton. I thought God was punishing me for something I had done, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what I could have possibly done to deserve such a curse. I was teased mercilessly by boys, who in turn were constantly trying to get a free feel. I would wear layers of clothing to try to hide my big breasts, even during the hot summers. I was ostracized by the girls because of the attention I received from the horny boys. All I had was Carly to hang out with, but I also learned how to be alone.
When high school rolled around, the attention from boys increased - the cute, the popular, and the jocks. I was told that I was pretty, that I had a nice shape, and the compliments made me feel good. My confidence began to grow, and for the first time I actually believed that I was pretty. I never heard I was pretty from my
parents growing up, so why would I ever think it? With my newfound confidence, I became cocky and ruthless. I was now the popular girl in school, especially with the boys. Everyone wanted to go out with me and boys were even fighting over me. Girls hated me, and their hate only fueled my growing ego. I knew how to show them, though: I would take their boyfriends away from them and flaunt it in their faces. It got me into many fights, and I even got jumped a few times, but it never stopped me. I wasn’t scared of anyone, and I can fight with the best of them, which is why girls resorted to jumping me instead of fighting me one on one. In my mind, I was the shit. I was the baddest bitch at that school, and I had the boys following behind me like lost puppies to prove it. I never had to pay for my lunch, I never had to pay for a ticket to any school function, and I definitely never had to pay for anything on a date.
Many people, including my own family, believed that I was hoeing around and sleeping with all of these boys. What they didn’t know was that I was still a virgin. Yes, I messed around with guys, gave them hand jobs and blow jobs and let them feel me up, but I never let any of them get remotely close to penetrating me. Sure I got called a tease, but they always came back for more because I became really good at pleasing them without giving up my virginity. There were girls in high school who bragged about sleeping with grown men. These grown men would in turn give them things - be it clothes, money, or jewelry. They called them “sugar daddies,” and while I was intrigued, I didn’t want to sleep with them like most of these girls did. I did get attention from older men while in high school, but the attention I received from one particular man wasn’t the attention I wanted: My high school gym teacher, Mr. Sullivan.
Chapter Two - Stolen Innocence (Sarah)
Mr. Sullivan always paid me extra attention, but not in a good way. I thought he hated my guts because he was always yelling at me and singling me out for doing something wrong. I was very good in gym and that’s because I loved sports, believe it or not. I’m very competitive, so I always gave my all. I wasn’t the girl who thought she was too good or too cute to participate, so Mr. Sullivan’s constant badgering always confused me. It didn’t take me long to figure out why.
It was late May during my junior year of high school when Mr. Sullivan decided we would have gym outside. It was a hot and humid day, but still perfect weather for a game of softball. Thanks to my brothers Junior and Michael, I was a great hitter and outfielder. They taught me everything I know. Mr. Sullivan told the class to meet him out on the field while he gathered the equipment.
I was walking out of the gym with the rest of the class when I heard Mr. Sullivan call my name in his booming, intimidating voice, stopping me in my tracks. “Paris! I need you to help me take the equipment out!”
I looked around to see where his usual helpers were, but they had already left the gym. It was now just the two of us in the massive, musty, old gymnasium. I felt his request was odd and out of the blue, but I did as I was told anyway.
“Sure, Mr. Sullivan,” I finally replied. I followed him to the back of the gym where the equipment room was located and began gathering softballs and gloves and stuffed them into a huge, Army-green sack that was used to carry the gym equipment. I could smell Mr. Sullivan standing behind me. He always wore Old Spice aftershave, like most men his age, including my father. I tried not to be nervous, but something didn’t feel right. The hairs on the back of my neck began to stand up; fear and nervousness began to stir in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me with his greenish-grey eyes. Mr. Sullivan was tall, about 6’3” and muscular. He had ebony-colored skin, which made his light-colored eyes stand out even more. He kept his hair cut low in a military style, and he always wore basketball warm-up pants, Nike tennis shoes, and a navy-blue T-shirt with our school mascot on it. He was a no-nonsense man and didn’t smile often, which is why his strange demeanor didn’t sit well with me. His eyes looked sinister, and he had a weird smirk on his lips. He was leaning against the wall closest to the door with his muscled arms crossed against his chest before he finally spoke.
“I see you like teasing the boys, huh, Sarah?”
“Excuse me?” I asked nervously, as I turned around to face him.
My stomach sunk to my feet, and the nervousness I felt turned to nausea. This was the first time he’d called me by my first name. Ever. And the way he said my name sent cold chills down my spine. Something about him wasn’t right. All I could think about was an exit plan, how I was going to get away from him, and where the rest of the class was. As I looked at where he stood and how his body was positioned, I realized that he was purposely blocking the doorway - my only exit out of the equipment room. I had to think fast; I needed to get to safety.
“You heard me. You’re a tease. I hated girls like you when I was in high school. You walk around like your shit don’t stank, thinking you can lead boys along and play with their feelings like it’s some kind of damn game. You think because you have big tits and a fat ass that boys will just fall at your feet, don’t you?” he snarled. His nostrils were flared and a vein was popping out on his temple as anger took over him.
Each time he spoke, his words dripped with more and more venom and resentment. I don’t know what happened to Mr. Sullivan while he was in high school, or what pretty girl broke his heart, but I wasn’t her.
“Mr. Sullivan, I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with you, and I think we should get outside with the rest of the class before they wonder where we are.” I tried my best not to sound afraid, but I was petrified. My entire body was quaking with fear, and my heart was pounding out of my chest. I had to will my hands to stop shaking as I held the equipment bag. I looked over at the bats and began gathering a few. I knew I would need a weapon of some kind in case he tried to hurt me. I had a death grip on one of the metal bats and it made Mr. Sullivan uncross his arms and stand up straight.
“What do you think you gonna do with that bat, girl?” He slowly approached me. “You scared of me?” he asked with anger in his eyes and a disgusting smile on his lips.
“No, I’m not scared. I’m just ready to get outside with the rest of the class, Mr. Sullivan,” I said, with as much courage as I could muster.
“You’ll leave when I tell you to. You don’t run me or my class. Is that clear, little girl?”
Instead of answering, I tried to walk by him, but he got in my way and pushed me back, causing me to stumble into a shelf.
“You need to let me go!” I shouted.
Before I could even blink he was in front of me, digging his thick fingers into my upper arms. “I said, you leave when I tell you to! This is your problem - you’re so used to getting your way. Well that ends today! I’m gonna teach you a lesson someone should have taught you a long time ago. None of these little boys can teach you though, only a grown man like me can.”
Panic coursed through my body as reality set in. He was going to rape me. I began to kick, scream, scratch, and claw at him, but it was all to no avail. He was much too strong for me, and my resistance only made him angrier. A hard, stinging slap came across my face followed by my gym shorts being forced down my hips until they fell in a pool at my feet. Next I felt my panties being ripped off of me. I tried to scream, but with the chokehold he had on my throat, no sound escaped my lips. Hot, frantic tears streamed down my face as he pulled down his pants and pulled out his penis. “Please don’t,” I mouthed to him over and over. But it was all to no avail. He wanted to rape me because he planned to rape me.
He turned me around roughly and placed his forearm across my neck to keep me immobile. My legs were forced apart with his powerful thigh. Even though he no longer had his huge, thick hands around my neck, I still couldn’t cry out. My cries were lodged in my throat, straining to come out and be heard, but I made no sound. Streams of tears fell down my face as I tried to fight him again. I kicked my feet back as hard as I could, hoping to get his shin. I stomped my feet on the ground, hoping to break his toes or foot. I l
anded a few blows, but he averted the rest of them and slammed me into the shelf harder, knocking the air out of my body.
“I knew you were feisty and had some fight in you, but you will never overpower me,” he said with humor in his voice. This sick bastard was getting off on the fact that I was fighting him. He wanted me to fight him. I felt the bile rising in my throat at the thought.
“This will make you think twice about teasing me,” he growled into my ear.
Wait - I thought this was about me teasing boys? Once again he made this about him. At this point it didn’t even matter. Pain and agony took over as I screamed in horror. The forced entry of his large penis into my virgin, bone-dry vagina caused unspeakable pain. He continued to thrust mercilessly until he broke past my hymen. His grunts became louder and more animalistic, and I prayed that it would be over soon. More importantly, I prayed that I wouldn’t get pregnant behind this since no protection was used. I thanked God that it ended quickly even though it felt like it lasted a lifetime. He quickly pulled out of me and spilled his semen into the trash can that was next to us. Hearing his grunts and moans of pleasure made me regurgitate my breakfast into the same garbage can. I was shaking like a leaf and in a state of shock and disbelief. It was as though I floated outside of my body and nothing but an empty shell was left as I stood there, shivering and crying with blood running down my thighs. I was crying so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.
Mr. Sullivan had already cleaned himself and pulled up his underwear and pants. He was still panting when he walked up to me and roughly turned my face to look at him. The look he gave me is a look I’ll remember for the rest of my life; it was one of satisfaction, dominance, and disgust.