Lust(41)

I leaned her back against the armrest of the couch and pulled a blanket  around her. I watched her sleep for a few minutes, taking in her natural  beauty that had always been just beneath the surface of her pain. I had  been so wrapped up in watching her, looking at her with what felt like  new eyes, I nearly forgot about what that darkness actually was. That's  when I decided to grab my laptop so I could find out more about what she  had endured. The last thing I wanted to do was question her endlessly  once she awoke, and I knew that meant I needed to find the answers  myself.

I set up my laptop on the ottoman in front of the couch and sat next to  Ivy as I began to search the Internet. The first thing I looked up was  "sewing vagina closed," but all that came up were ridiculous threads  from young girls asking if they should do that to keep themselves from  having premarital sex. I couldn't believe the stupidity of some people.  Then, after searching through a few more threads, I found the term  "female genital mutilation." I typed that in the search box and the  moment it loaded, I thought I might throw up.

Images filled the page-images I could have gone my entire life without  seeing. They were gory and gruesome, showing bleeding and mutilated  vaginas from females of all ages. My insides cringed and hardened, and I  had to summon all of my courage just to keep searching. I bypassed the  images, never needing to see those again.

Informative websites popped up, explaining the act and why it is  preformed. It's cultural based, and believed to keep the purity of women  in tact. Usually preformed at a young age, they are cut with unsanitary  items including razor blades and broken glass. Anesthesia isn't used  and more than half the time, the girls die due to the pain, the  bleeding, or an infection caused by the unsterile situations. I couldn't  believe what I was reading, never realizing how much goes on in other  countries that I wasn't aware of.         

     



 

Sites explained that there are typically three different forms of  genital mutilation: the removal of the clitoris, the removal of the  clitoris and the inner lips, and then there was the closure of the  vagina, which also included the removal of the clitoris and inner lips  with a small opening left for urination. The female remains sewn closed  until marriage, in which the husband breaks the sutures by penetration  for the purposes of procreating. Once the child is born, the female is  sewn back up.

It made me think of Ivy and what she had gone through. I wondered what  would cause her mother to do that to her child, and where she would have  taken her to have it done, or if she had done it herself. And that's  when I discovered that the act was once upon a time preformed in the  United States, and it wasn't officially banned until 1996. I was utterly  sick at the discovery, finding out that American doctors did such vile  things to children, and in some situations, it was still being preformed  to keep families from taking their children overseas to have it done.  What they do to appease the parents aren't to the extremes that I read  about taking place over in Africa, but it was still happening  nonetheless.

But I had been with Ivy; I had gotten her off in my office. I touched  her. I think I would have noticed if anything was missing, which only  caused me to have even more questions. Why hadn't I noticed something  was different? She was so adamant and fearful of people seeing her and  noticing the scars, but yet I hadn't discerned anything different with  her.

I glanced over at her and noticed she was staring back at me with wide  eyes. The grey looked almost silver as she stared unblinkingly at me. I  wanted to ask her things, but I couldn't find the words. The fear in her  features stole any words that I would have said and erased them.

"Just ask me," she said, her timid voice breaking. "I know you want to ask."

I started to shake my head, but she was right. "Why did she do it?"

"I don't know. I never had the chance to ask."

"But I read that it is a cultural thing. Did she believe in that kind of thing?"

Her shoulders rose to her chin. "I have no idea. I don't think so since I  was never raised that way. My mother wasn't a religious person as far  as I knew. I think she was just crazy. There was something seriously  wrong with her, but I'll never know what it was. There are a lot of  things I will never know because she's not here anymore to ask. I did  talk to her boyfriend once, the one that called social services and had  me taken away from my mom. I never told him what happened to me, but I  did ask if he knew what was wrong with her. He told me that he never  realized there was anything wrong until close to the end of their  relationship. They had a fight when he told her I should be allowed to  be around other kids. She argued with him that I wasn't allowed to be  seen by anyone. He said that's when he realized something wasn't right.  It wasn't long after that when he made the call, and he said he was  scared the entire time, worrying what would happen to me if they didn't  take me away. He told me that if they let her keep me, he would have  come back for me. But I never saw or spoke to him again after that. I  have no idea what ever happened to him, but I believe he saved my life. I  don't even want to think about what would have happened to me had he  never called anyone. Then again, I look at myself and wonder what kind  of life I have now because of it. Maybe I would have been better off  where I was, safe in my own little bubble."

"You can't possibly believe that to be true."

She shrugged again and looked at the computer screen. "That's not what  happened to me," she said as she read the screen. "There was a doctor at  the hospital that explained it all to me. I had no idea what had  happened or why, and she explained it the best way she could to an  eleven-year-old. As I got older, I became curious about it, but I never  looked into it. I didn't want to read about it or know any more than  what I already did. But I do know that nothing was ever cut off. I was  only sewn closed."

Relief flooded my veins at her admission. "So, these scars … " I let my  sentence drift off, allowing her to finish it herself. I was used to  asking tough questions in my profession but, for some reason, I couldn't  find the strength to finish any real question I had wanted to ask Ivy.

"They are from the sutures. There were some that ripped out when I was  younger and now I have scars. I remember finding a mirror at my aunt's  house and looking at myself after everything happened. I had never seen  myself before, and only on occasion had felt it, and I was curious as to  what I looked like without them. I was disgusted and never looked  again."         

     



 

"When you first told me that you didn't like to be touched or seen and  after what you told me about your mom, I just thought it made you feel  dirty. I had no idea it was this bad. Why didn't you tell me before? You  could have told me, Ivy." I had a desperate need for her to understand  that I was there for her, that I would always be there for her. I didn't  understand it because I never felt the need to always be there for  someone before.

Her eyes met mine again and they looked glassy, like she was about to  cry again. I moved closer to her and leaned over her body, getting my  face as close to hers while still being able to see her clearly. Her  breathing hitched and once she let it out, I felt a slow wave of warm  air brush against my skin.

"I couldn't tell you, Cade. I had only ever told a few people when I was  younger and in foster care. The way they looked at me after I told  them, like I was only half a person, made me feel even worse about  myself. I couldn't let you look at me like that. I wouldn't be able to  handle that. There is something about you that makes me feel okay, and I  knew that would go away if I told you."

"Am I looking at you that way now? Am I looking at you like you're half a person?"

A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, but she didn't bother to wipe it away. "No."

"Can I look at you now?"

Her brows pinched in the middle as she tried to figure out what I was asking.

"I want to see you, Ivy …  all of you. Can I do that?" I whispered, letting my breath carry my words.

Fear consumed her features once she realized what I was asking. Her head  started shaking vigorously back and forth and her eyes grew twice the  normal size. "No. You can't look at me. It's hideous. Please don't look  at me," she begged, on the verge of crying again.

"Ivy," I whispered against her cheek just before I softly pressed my  lips on her wet skin. "You've come this far. You've already opened up to  me about this, just open up one more time. Break through this barrier  with me. Let me help make you feel better. Please," I begged against her  cheek, needing her to know this was about making her feel better and  not some morbid curiosity.