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Empathy Only Stuff that doesn't go away from my head

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When I was three, I spent my first summer in my granny's house. Mother left me there for work, and I was happy, running around and playing in the garden. I don't remember the first time they introduced me to a neighbor boy, I'll call him Jonny. I know that eventually we became good friends. He was two years older. I always thought we were a brother and a sister.

I spent every summer there since then. I played outside, I helped my grandmother (I called her granny Vera) and great-grandmother (granny Nina), and greatly enjoyed my time with Jonny. We do everything together. He taught me a lot of things.

I was thirteen, when I came there for a summer for the last time. I can't forget those three months. I tried. It's been five years, and I still remember it way too good. And I feel like I need to tell about it somewhat and get -- sympathy, I guess. Someone to tell me I have reasons to feel about it the way I do. Terrible.

There are two parts to this story. First -- things that were happening in granny's house. Second -- things with Jonny.

The first story is about granny Nina. He was eighty six back then, if I didn't miscalculate. I don't know what was the reason, I never was told the diagnosis and I don't know if adults knew it themselves. She had hallucinations. She slept poorly, screaming at nights and walking around the house. She talked with people that wasn't there, she said things that didn't make sense. She talked with herself as if there were two of them. She could go away from home and get lost, or confuse a bedroom to a bathroom. Lots of stuff.

I was the one to look after her. Feed her, talk with her, listen to her stories. When she got to a garage, I searched for her and then spent an hour convincing her to go back home. I tried to be gentle and friendly with her. But I didn't like it. I didn't want to spend time with her. I hated it when she walked in my room in the middle of a night. I started to lock up the door, put headphones on and ignore the mumblings and the screams. I was irresponsible and ungrateful. For all granny Nina did to me when I was young, I had to be with hew when she felt so bad.

Granny Vera thought so, too. She told me this. At the end of the summer, when granny Nina got worse, she screamed at her, telling her to shut up when she cried in the night. Granny Vera screamed at me, too, when I didn't help her enough. I felt guilty. I didn't change anything in my behavior, and tried to run away from the situation as often as possible.

And the only place I could go to was the house of my friend, Jonny.

He was fifteen back then, and completely different things were on his mind. I didn't get, how much, I just spent time in his room, using his wi-fi because I didn't have it at granny's house. I remember how it all started. A joke, when he invited me to a bathroom and closed the door. He asked me to give him a hand. I did. He pushed his dick there. I was confused. I turned back to playing a game and didn't think much of it. (I still remember that way too good.)

It wasn't the end, of course. He talked about sex, a lot. When I played at his computer, he stood behind me, touching my breasts. He showed me pictures to explain what he wanted from me, some videos. Turned on porn and stroked my skin under my skirt while I was watching. He tried to convince me to have sex with me. I tried to ignore, I tried to say no, but it didn't really work. I wasn't necessary scared. Only confused. And I had nowhere else to go.

Three memories I remember the most clearly (don't read it if you have problems with such stuff, pls):
one, when he pushed me to a wall and touched with his dick. The cold wet wood of the shower, the darkness, his breathing near my ear, the warmth of his body. The confusion of mine. We didn't have sex. He was just playing around;
two, when he told me to go home or to masturbate him. I agreed. The cold floor of his bathroom, the darkness, the breathing. his dick in my hands, the annoyance of his when I did it wrong. His hand in my pants. My laughter. I sat there in darkness, and laughed, unable to do anything with it. I didn't know how else to react;
three, when we lied in one bed and I played a game on his tablet. I was too focused on the game, I wanted to make a new record or something, and I didn't notice when he got quiet. When I looked up, his hand was on his dick. I remember his face, how he bit his lip. I remember, how he jerked with his own body. I don't remember how I got to my feet and froze there, looking at him. I remember how empty was in my head, when I watched him stood up and took off his red shirt, dirty with white. I remember his words, too. "I've never had such a strong one before."

We never had sex. He never did anything to me. Maybe he would even stop if I'd state it without any doubts that I didn't want it. I always was too hesitant, too unsure. I literally agreed on the most things. If I wouldn't, it wouldn't happen, then, and whom to blame but myself, right?

When I told granny Vera, she said it was fine. She seemed concerned, sure. She talked with his grandma. But also she said that it happens. And that he was just a guy that grew up too soon. That nothing wrong have happened. That I shouldn't worry. That I shouldn't care about it that much, just be careful when I talk with him again.

So, I tried. To not care. About that summer. Except for the fact that those memories are always somewhere around, and I... don't really have a reason? It wasn't that bad, right? Nothing in my life was as bad as I feel it is. I should be calmer and just stop thinking about it all, because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

It didn't matter. When the next year I sat at the window, my legs outside, and thought about falling off, I didn't think it was connected with that summer in any way. When I wrote a story about a girl that killed herself after she was raped, I honestly said it had nothing to do with my experiences. When I had a boyfriend that was five years older and he asked for photos, I agreed, because it was obviously what a guy would want for me, and I didn't want him to leave me because of this. When my last boyfriend hugged me and kissed me, I felt terrible and dirty and didn't stop him anyway.

I met with Jonny a year or so ago. In his house. We talked for an hour, I remember nothing of that conversation. I was too lost in my memories. I looked at his face and remembered how he looked at that bed. I wanted to ask one single question, "Why?" The words of granny Vera rang in my head, reminding that I shouldn't. It didn't matter. It was years ago. There was no point in bringing it up. So I didn't. But still find myself regretting it. I want to know if he was sorry, if he regretted it, if he still remembers it at all, because I do. Still. Even if it doesn't matter.

Only now, when I decided to call myself asexual and looked back at everything that have happened in my life, it suddenly made sense that that summer did affect me. (And oh wow, was it just a long coming out, yeah it was xd)

And what about granny Nina? Now I feel like I wasted your time with that story, but, like, it happened at the same time, and it was a reason why I spent so much time with Jonny (the main reason is that I was stupid, of course), and because it happened and wanted to tell someone about it. She died the winter after the summer. I didn't feel anything. I still don't. But can't sleep in a room with unlocked door at all, I get to anxious about it since then.

So. Yeah. Thanks for reading, I guess.

...did it matter? Was it that bad? May I worry about it? Is it fine that I still remember it? Am I just wasting my time on these thoughts? Was granny Vera right? Was it better to ask? Was it my fault?..
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