Thrice Raped

By Donnie Newson

"Thrice Raped" is the story of a child who endured and survived successive episodes of sexual abuse at the hands of those most trusted members of her family and community.  Rebecca Barlow's story is one that is all too familiar in modern society, bearing a shocking resemblance to the criminal acts that are carried out against young girls all over the world.  Her story is a reminder that we mustn't be afraid to talk about the dirty little secrets that are rehearsed, rinsed, dried, and replayed over and over and over again.  "Thrice Raped" shines the light on the demons in a way that forces us all to deal with the fact that they do exist, that they have existed for centuries, and they must be stopped.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donnie Newson
• Release date: May 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215857120

Book preview

Transcribed by her Attorney:

D. Hubert Newson, Esq.

© Copyright 2021 – D Hubert Newson

All rights reserved.  This book is protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America.  This book may not be copied or reprinted for commercial gain or profit.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION .......................................................... 5

CHAPTER 1.  Love Don’t Live Here Anymore...............8

CHAPTER 2.  Lost And Turned Out..............................12

CHAPTER 3.  Happy Feelings.......................................16

CHAPTER 4.  A New Friend..........................................20

CHAPTER 5.  Forbidden Fruit......................................25

CHAPTER 6.  Stacking Secrets..................................... 28

CHAPTER 7.  Perfectly Confused................................. 31

CHAPTER 8.  My Private Thoughts............................. 37

CHAPTER 9.  The Weekend, Again............................. 44

CHAPTER 10. After the Storm.................................... 51

CHAPTER 11.  Dear Diary...........................................  57

CHAPTER 12.  School Starts ....................................... 64

CHAPTER 13. Hands in the Cookie Jar .......................68

CHAPTER 14. No Words Necessary ............................ 74

CHAPTER 15.  Castles of Sand ....................................  80

CHAPTER 16.  Unhear What You Heard ..................... 84

CHAPTER 17.  Profane Proliferations ......................... 88

CHAPTER 18.  Guilty Until Proven Innocent .............. 94

CHAPTER 19.  Senseless to Sensing ............................ 99

CHAPTER 20.  Man of the Cloth ..................................103

CHAPTER 21.    Sick Willy ..........................................  106

CHAPTER 22.  Final Counsel ....................................  116

THRICE RAPED

INTRODUCTION

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(Never a victim, not once, no never)

Though hunted like an animal, by animals with insatiable appetites and unquenchable thirst, my outcome is of my choosing.  Don’t pity me based on what you see, for if I am the slave today, I shall be the master tomorrow.  What I wouldn’t give to be the lion, but for now I am his prey, still not a victim.  (I can never be a victim.)  I must survive another day, and I shall. That has been the thought in my heart since my youth.  It was placed there by clergy when they told me: We are all a product of our decisions, and the decisions that we make today determine our tomorrow.  So how should that make me feel?  Did I choose the pain, the complexity of unexplainable anomalous life propagations, seemingly here to reduce me to zero? Or, did the pain choose me? Maybe it was the former, or the latter, or both. I suppose it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. Simultaneously, life’s prevailing ideology is that it is what it is and everything is everything.  Maybe we are all predestined to walk a certain path. (Even though we are taught to believe that life’s outcomes are resultants of choice) And maybe that path is a little bit more complicated for girls existing in male dominated worlds. The power, the energy, they do not randomly produce cause and effect in the Universe.  I’m convinced that motive and intent are deliberate entities. No one escapes that reality.  In an alternate universe, maybe I am the aggressor, the manipulator, the transgressor, the one who imposes her will on the powerless.  Maybe it really does go around and come around, the world, you know, our existences.  Should I simply embrace adversity and pain and negative energy as though they were family members?  The one thing that I am certain of is that I should not be fearful for fear is the tool of victims and I can never be that. 

The powerful exist because they have taken their power from the powerless, and I cannot be that.  I won’t choose that, for that is a choice with consequences more punishing than hell. Calling it fair, or unfair, doesn’t really matter.  The glass is there, half full, half empty, by perception of the onlooker, a creation of our maker, manipulated by humans.  The energy that I possess, that possesses me, it is not transferable. With my mind free, the wealth of the nations isn’t enough.  Sometimes I imagine that my reward cannot be contained in the universe. This is an other worldly phenomena.   I am a spirit-being, so what you do to this physical shell cannot destroy me, for my physical-being isn’t really me.  My only hope is that my story will be told, in its entirety.  And who better to tell it than me?  So then, the subsequent healing for young women who are similarly situated to me is my gift to each of them.  I suspect that many of them have an equivalent story to tell, but in our private secret society we are encouraged to keep silent because the truth might further damage us.  (What a preposterous lie) The masses want to boldly proclaim that hurt people, hurt people, but that only scratches the surface.  The demon that tormented you and tried to destroy you has a predetermined fate far worse than anyone could ever imagine.  What joy I would have in watching that demon burn in hell.  I could stare into that pit until every inch of him turned into crispy black morsels of ash.  We must all find a way to survive until that day comes.

CHAPTER I

LOVE DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE

Mom and dad never really figured out the being married thing. For as long as I can remember, their relationship was always really awkward. Individually, they each loved me.  Even collectively, it was obvious that they loved me. Still, I never truly had the sense that they properly loved one another. Maybe in the beginning, before I was born, they could have been in love then.  They co-existed in the same space with me as their common interest, but didn’t appear to ever acknowledge one another’s energy. It was seemingly a marriage of convenience.  The arrangement was so awkward. 

My father was mostly a really good dad, but he would always disappear for days, and then mysteriously reappear.  Mom didn’t seem to care.  In fact, it was as though she anxiously awaited his next adventure and the ensuing lies upon his return.  It was always a big production seemingly more entertaining than the cinema. Mom even joked once upon his return from his latest escapades (following the all too familiar performance afterwards) that she was confused as to whether it would be more satisfying to continue to supply the overly dramatic applauds that stroked his damaged but inflated ego, or to put a bullet through dad’s skull.  I felt so sorry for her.  Her eyes were dead and I suspect that inside, she was too.  I never commented when I saw her pain.  I was too young to fully understand it all or to offer anything remotely resembling a solution.  I just smiled and gave her a hug. And when I hugged her, I felt the virtue leave my body. It was always as though she drew something from me that she really needed, but should not have taken from a child. Her vessel was nearly empty and it was my job as her little girl to re-fill it whenever I could.  I didn’t mind.  My love for mom was infinite, like the air we breathe, like grains of sand. 

From the time I was about three years old, dad would always take me to the park to play on Saturday mornings. The time we shared on Saturdays at the park was one of my fondest childhood memories. We would park the car near the front, on the grass next to the trail that led to the monkey bars and walk through the woods to reach them.  When we got there, there was a bench not far from the play area where dad would sit and watch me play. I had a friend named Selma who was always there to enjoy the park with me and she loved it just as much as I loved it.  Mom and dad could not see Selma because she would only show herself to me.  They often pretended to see her, but I knew that they could not because whenever we had a tea party they would sit Selma’s cup in the wrong spot.  Anyway, when we went to the park, I don’t know if Selma noticed, but I noticed that the same woman was always there at the park.  I never really thought much of it, but she would show up shortly after we arrived and sit right next to my dad on the park bench. I noticed them talking from time to time but it was normal to me because my dad was a very friendly man who frequently talked to strangers, even though he always told me that I shouldn’t talk to strangers. The conversations with this mystery woman during our park visits went on for nearly two years, until just before my fifth birthday. It was a day I will never forget. Mom showed up at the park and sat right between dad and his friend. I saw them talking, and the talks quickly escalated into shouting, just before my mom stormed away. I don’t recall ever seeing mom that angry before. 

A few days after that very uncomfortable visit to the park, mom said that the two of us needed to have a talk.  Hand in hand, we walked down the stairs, out the patio door, and into the back yard.  We sat on a blanket mom placed on the ground near the red maple tree.  Mom started the conversation by telling me how much she loves me and her words made me smile.  She went on to say how much dad loves me and that made me smile even more.  But