The Columnist

(Author's notes: This is my first attempt at a sexual story. I would appreciate comments and suggestions from whoever reads it. Also, out of curiosity if anyone could answer it for me, since the story is about a minor in a highly abusive lifestyle; would minor characters and descriptive sex scenes be allowed here, or should I keep it to minimal description and more of hints on that? Please and thank you! )


Sometimes you think everything is perfect; that life couldn't be any better. Sometimes you may think the world is ending, that everyone and everything is against you. Sometimes I wish I were you. I would give anything to have a single moment in your shoes; through your hardships, your troubles. I'm not trying to say your life is better than mine; however, I am trying to say that I would prefer yours over mine. There are days when I just wish that fate would come to an inevitable end and take me into her comforting arms.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not emo. I'm a victim of abuse...

Why I would state this so simply? Because I'm not in denial unlike the other people who have gone through similar things. Why would I submit something like this to the Post Dispatch for other people to read instead of going to someone who can help? Because I know others are going through the same thing...

… And I'm scared.

I'm not old enough to be on my own, but I'm in no way a child either. I'm in those awkward middle years when I should be worrying about who I'm going with to the school dance, if that spot on my face is really acne or not. I wish I could. But I can't. Every kid should have a safe haven to run to; unfortunately most that are like me don't.

I just want people to see that there needs to be things changed. That I don't want others to be like me.

-Submitted by Anonymous


It was just like every other day; it wasn't good, but it could have been a lot worse. I had wrote that to the post dispatch near a week ago and it was ran in the reader's editorials. What I didn't realize was that it was going to get much more attention that I had thought it would. The next day there was an article on the front paper with a reward to try to figure out who had sent the letter; to find me. Then it hit the local news channels. It was one letter trying to tell people that the world isn't as great as everyone sees it. Just one letter to let people know that there are still kids out there that are in so much trouble; to open the eyes to people that could be in potentially the same spot as me. Now I have caused all of this media attention that I can't really do anything about.

The news was flickering on the TV in front of me, talking about the exact letter that I wrote. Beside me sat my father, Adam. He was a tall man, strong even. His build was bulky but he wasn't fat. If you watched the media at all, he was constantly on there. Tonight I had the privilege to watch the TV with him because he was on it talking to the news about this recent letter. You see, my father is an important man in this town. He's not any sort of title, but you could consider him a duke-like figure to our budding city. The mayor looks to him for advice, and my father has strong connections to all the political figures for us. You could consider him the wing man I guess. He is looked on as a figure for advice, someone that always does right. He sponsors charities, fund raisers, helping the unfortunate; and now people were asking him about this mysterious kid. The recorded image of my father spoke through the TV about me.

'We need to figure out who had wrote this;no child should suffer like this boy has. God bless the child that he had the courage to speak up and that we can see that something needs to be done.' His shaggy salt and pepper hair was slicked backwards which revealed his slightly receding hairline. He wore a gray suit, white pressed shirt and a solid, dark red tie; which made him look absolutely stunning. He looked like he could save the world. A hero, wouldn't you agree? I wouldn't. 'I hope we find this child and put him or her into a safe home and that we do something about the man that is doing this to them.' Only no one ever said it was a man. No one but me.

“Do I have to watch this?” I muttered softly and almost instantly regretted even saying what was on my mind. My father's brow shot up quicker than fireworks on the Fourth of July and stared me down. His tie was loosened now, hair messed up and untamed, and had a heavy stench of Scotch lingering over his body and on his breath. Just from the glare that I received, I knew that I had completely pissed him off.

“Get up, now.” My father grunted and would move to get out of his own slumped state from the couch. Before I was even able to move from my spot, the front of my shirt was clenched into his fist and I was being dragged out of the living room and to my own room. “You have no respect for anything, child. If you want to succeed in this world, you need to learn how to keep your damn mouth shut.” Don't get me wrong, my father may have been a little bit older, but he was in no way weak. In fact it was quite the opposite; he was only forty-seven years old and was an ex-military man. He kept in good shape and could give many younger men a run for their money. Of course I would be the one to see this first hand as I was pushed into the wall with an incredible force of a thrust. Alcohol seemed to only make things worse. My own breath hitched as I hit the wall hard. Slowly I let my body slide to the floor, sitting on my ankles as my father just stared down at me.

“Dad, please! I didn't mean it. I swear, you looked great on the television. I was just getting tired.” As if I had again said something wrong, my father wasted no effort of his own energy and kicked me in the ribcage. There was a small stream of liquid on my face, and I wondered for a brief moment if the roof had been leaking, but then realized that I had been crying.

“Shut the fuck up, Eric. You are never going to survive in this world if you can't even fucking stand yourself up. Look at you, you lowly sack of shit.” Sometimes his attitude and strict discipline was too much; but I just had to tell myself each time that it couldn't get much worse. I'm alive, and I would be fine the next morning. I always was.