Full Disclosure, p.1

{strong language; sexual situations; sexual language; violence}

Full Disclosure

Chapter 1.

1.

Smoke is so thick I can’t breathe. I cough as I lay on the floor of my tiny little shower stall with its wrap-around curtain. The chilly water is running over my bleeding chest underneath the clinging white T-shirt. The water is my last hope, my make-shift sprinkler system. I turned my head and the fire is streaming through the top of my bedroom door like a blast furnace. The water stings my bloody chest and I grimace. I had tried to force myself out my little window above my bunk but my big boobs, ones that I was so proud of, wouldn’t squeeze through and I cut them deep trying. I cough again. Then the water spray slows to a drip and it stops. The smoke is too thick to breathe and suddenly the air is too hot to breath it.

“Come to me!” a voice calls out. I can’t move. I managed to roll my head to the side and what I saw was pure horror. Billy reaches to me and his back is on fire.

I awoke and sat straight up. I grabbed my chest. My T-shirt was dry and soft. I pulled the neck down and looked at the scars on my boobs where the doctor had sewn me up, then around at the dimly lit room, then at my snoring husband beside me. It was the fire dream again. I eased my legs out of the bed so as not to wake him. He’s in college and has tests tomorrow. I stood, padded out of the bedroom, and then down the stairs to the kitchen. It’s okay, his folks, Greg and Janice has seen me many times in nothing but my panties and T-shirt.

I went to the kitchen junk drawer and got a pad of paper and a pen. It’s the night of my seventeenth birthday, the second of March. It’s three in the morning and I’m writing this down because Janice said that if I get it out of me and on paper, then I can sort things better, not imagine so much. Why does the fire still haunt me? People died that night, people I was close to. That hurt me but I took my time and worked through those hurts.

I’ve just now decided that I want to tell my story, my whole story. This will seem like one of those unbelievable tales that you see in those supermarket tabloids, but bear with me because mine just happens to be true.

I finished high school earlier than most this past December. I am a grown woman now with a husband that I’m helping to put through college at Indiana University by waiting tables at a busy diner here in Indianapolis. I smile a lot and get generous tips from the men. Sometimes they pinch my ass and I yelp real cute. It keeps them coming back. I’m nobody’s fool.

With every wink and flirt, I’m reminded of my secret beginnings. And as odd as this may sound, I could have been a man, too. DNA, Mother Nature, God, or whoever is to blame, gave me a choice that no one else ever gets. My story, without shame or hesitation, starts when I entered puberty. I was eleven.

It was 1983 and I had an encounter with a pedophile. It happens more often than reported, or so I hear. Mother and I were at the county barn at the fairgrounds outside our small town in southern Indiana. We come out here every couple of months because this is where the churches bring donation clothes. We were on what Mother called ‘relief’ and state aid. I didn’t know what ‘relief’ was, but I knew that it meant poverty. People don’t know what ‘poor’ is these days. We lived on just a hundred dollars a month after rent.

There were long lines of tables in the huge pavilion. People were up and down the lines of tables under the bright fluorescent lights tossing through piles of clothes. Mother stood up from

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