The glider of the rocking chair punctured the ceiling as I raised it over my head, then brought it smashing down onto the floor. I kicked the coffee table across the room, faintly  aware of the pain in my leg as it connected. I was screaming. I could not stop screaming. I was in a blind rage like I had never known sober. I punched the wall on my way into the kitchen where I swiped everything off of the counter onto the floor. Tears blurred my vision. Everything was behind a red sheen. I made my way down the hallway to the bedroom, punching, screaming, needing to calm down. Needing to stop. Needing to destroy everything. Wanting to just fucking die. “Let Grampie feel…”

“Fuck you fuck you fuck you!” I roared.

The lamp hit the wall followed by the night stand. The glass on the floor cut my feet but I would not notice until later. The mattress ended up in the hallway. Pictures were ripped from the walls and the dresser mirror, which had somehow survived to show me the reflection of a madman, received a bloody fist and shattered.

Eventually the adrenalin that I had been raging on faded, and I lay on the box spring amid pictures and broken glass, and cried.

The memory had come from nowhere, escaping the locked chest of memories that I had managed to blot out of existence. For seven years it had laid  dormant, forgotten, until today. It started with that one line: “Let grampie feel.”

I was home alone with Grampie, who was visiting from Nova Scotia. We were watching television and he asked me to come sit beside him on the couch. It felt nice spending time alone with him and when he put an arm around my shoulder. Coronation Street was on.

“I bet you’d like to have it in her wouldn’t you?” he said, referring to one of the women on the show.

I smiled nervously, not answering, and suddenly feeling very uncomfortable.

“Look at the tits on that one! Wouldn’t you like to feel them?” he continued.

I went from uncomfortable to scared very quickly. I still didn’t say anything. It was just Grampie and he was drunk.

Then he said “Let Grampie feel.” and put his hand on my crotch and squeezed. His grip on my shoulder tightened and he grabbed my right hand, putting it on his crotch. I was shocked, my head spinning. This could not be happening! Not Grampie!

I twisted my way out of his grasp, too shocked and scared to speak, but wanting to scream and cry and punch him in the face all at the same time. I stepped into the kitchen and through the window saw with relief, my parents getting out of their truck.

“Mom and Dad’s home!” I said, my voice shaking. I turned on the faucet and poured myself a glass of water as my parents walked in. My hands shook so badly that I gave up trying to drink it, smiled when Mom spoke to me, and tried with every fiber of my being to act normal. Shame washed over me like a wave.

I guess I did  a pretty good job of acting normal. The incident actually ended up in that box in my mind marked ‘Dark Unspeakable Secrets’ and no one ever knew about it. Somehow, I even managed to forget about it, as happens with things in the ‘Dark Unspeakable Secrets’ box. It stayed in the box, unrecalled, until I was nineteen years old.

 I still get nauseous when I see Coronation Street on TV.