From: bobandcarole@aol.com   
      
   Story: Closing The Book   
      
   by bobandcarole   
      
   (The end to a dark chapter of my life)   
      
   Preamble   
   This is a true story. Some may not believe that but it is the truth.   
      
   I am now a happily married woman of 38 with a loving husband and   
   a beautiful near-teen aged daughter. But the fact is, there was a time   
   in my life that was anything but happy and is the only secret I’ve ever   
   kept from my wonderful husband over these past 14 years. This black   
   hole, as I call it, is also the cause of the one and only lie I’ve ever   
   told my husband; something I’ve always regretted but to this day, am   
   sure was the right thing.   
      
   However the memories of that time and the ever present thought of   
   that one small lie continued to play on my mind. So for some years   
   I’ve been desperately trying to find a way of closing the book on   
   those dark memories; to put the whole painful past to rest once and   
   for all; to cleanse my mind of the vile events I suffered. Finally, I   
   decided the best way to achieve this was to write the whole truth,   
   leaving nothing out. I feel very comfortable with that choice now.   
      
   CLOSING THE BOOK   
   Part One   
   The Early Years   
      
   I was just seven or eight years old when I was removed from my drug   
   and alcohol impaired parents care. Memories of those early years are   
   little more than a blur to me now although I do remember life being   
   full of turmoil, from verbal and physical abuse that drugs and alcohol   
   caused them to rain down on me.   
      
   It was only later when I heard it was one of my school teachers who   
   had reported my apparently obvious mistreatment to the authorities.   
   However the day it all took place is etched clearly in my mind. We   
   were all still asleep when loud knocking wakened me and my dazed   
   parents. As soon as the door was opened, in poured several people,   
   men and women all in uniform, and immediately took me into their   
   custody. There was much screaming in terror from me; loud abuse   
   and swearing from my parents, especially my father who was   
   stomping around the room in his torn pajama pants, arguing and   
   ordering the intruders out.   
      
   They soon did leave with me being held tightly in the arms of a lady   
   in uniform. All that was left of me with my parents was a piece of   
   paper one of the policemen thrust into Dad’s hands. He was still   
   roaring abuse as we drove away. My final sighting of him was a flick   
   of his hand as he turned back towards the house, as much to say,   
   ‘good riddance.’   
      
   I think I was still crying from fear but that soon stopped when I   
   realised they were talking calmly to me, smiles of encouragement   
   and something I’d never experienced before, hugs and cuddles.   
      
   Most of that day was spent with the lady who took me from the   
   house. She was very pleasant and cheerful; talked to me continually;   
   asked me lots of questions; never growled when I couldn’t answer   
   and even bought me a hamburger for lunch. I was taken to see a lady   
   doctor which frightened me for I’d never been to a doctor’s in my   
   whole life that I could remember, but again my first fears were   
   quickly dispelled and I was apparently found to be in good health.   
      
   My first night away from my parents was spent in a room with   
   several other girls and I found myself sleeping in the softest, cleanest   
   bed I have ever seen. It even smelled sweet, a far cry from the dank   
   mattress on the living room floor at home.   
      
   The next morning I was given a whole suitcase of new clothes, pretty   
   things I’d envied other girls wearing up to now and I was taken for a   
   long ride in a car with the same lady who’d rescued me the day   
   before. She explained lots of things during the trip but the one that   
   remained with me was the fact that I would be living with some   
   people who look after children who have no home and that they were   
   very nice and would treat me like a child of their own.   
      
   After that day I rarely thought of my parents again, they quickly   
   became a distant memory and to this day I’ve had no desire to make   
   contact with them or even learn their fate.   
      
   The people lived in a nice home in a small town in Arkansas. It had   
   flowers growing all around, lots of nicely trimmed grass to play on   
   and there were already two boys staying with them, both like me,   
   being taken from their parents because they hadn’t been looked after   
   properly. One boy was about three years older than me, the other   
   about my own age.   
      
   Within a day I was calling them Mom and Dad and they were fun to   
   be with. For the first time in my life, I was living with a proper   
   family; happy and cared for, actually loved because both Mom and   
   Dad kept telling me how much they loved having a little girl to call   
   their own for the first time. As I got older I learned that they hadn’t   
   any children of their own and for many years had been looking after   
   homeless kids like me, some for just a while, and others, like the   
   elder boy, for a long time.   
      
   We were a family and I grew to accept Mom and Dad as my true   
   parents. All thought of my real ones quickly faded. They made rules   
   that had to be kept, like no fighting, no swearing, do your homework   
   on time, help with various chores; all the things I guess normal   
   families did. Breaking the rules usually brought a talking to which   
   always made me feel so guilty, especially when most infractions were   
   not done with intent but through simple girlish spontaneity.   
   Occasionally, Dad would growl a bit which made us all take notice   
   immediately. Only once did I remember Dad spanking the younger   
   boy when he swore at Dad after being spoken to for some reason.   
   Even then, the spanking didn’t seem to last very long behind the   
   closed door of his room and the boy came out red-faced with   
   embarrassment.   
      
   As I got older, Mom took me aside one evening and told me about   
   the things that would soon begin happening to my body; growing   
   boobies and periods. I knew I’d eventually get bosoms but had no   
   idea what periods were. After learning that my front place, that’s   
   what I’d learned to call my pussy from my first mother, would begin   
   to bleed actual blood every month, I became very self-conscious of   
   my body. Mom didn’t talk about sex at all, just that a girl’s vagina, as   
   she called it, bled every month and I had to accept it. Her explanation   
   for this unheard of phenomenon was that it proved I wasn’t pregnant.   
   Despite my questions she went no further with her explanation.   
      
   But a talk about the birds and bees was never given to me. I must say   
   here that I did know a little about what boys and girls did, rather   
   mothers and fathers did, from several of my school friends. One girl   
   in particular told us every time her parents did sex things because she   
   could hear them through the bedroom wall. Some of the other girls   
   had been told about sex and some of that filtered down to me with   
   lots of giggling and blushes. All of this, including the knowledge that   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
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    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)