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Loss of Innocence

Innocence is something most often lost gradually over a childhood. A way of looking at the world that is both naive and pure. There are troubles, there are dangers, sure, but Innocence sees not the darkness that envelops life. Innocence sees not the crust and grime that sits atop even the greatest treasures.

When I was nine my family moved from the small town in Montana I had lived in since I was five. Every familiarity was suddenly pulled away from me and I was silently reeling. I missed my friends and the town I had roamed freely, and had no idea what to do in my new home in a childless neighborhood. I still remember the sense of dread I felt as I walked in to my new classroom, full of strange faces painted with judgment I had never felt before… and then there he was.

Michael was a troublemaker. The class clown, constantly seeking validation and attention. I was cognisant of his overpowering need to be the centre of attention at all times, and I hated it. He was loud and obnoxious and had a funny lisp that made him sound much younger than his seven years. He had just moved to Montana from some place I can no longer recall, and right away he got on every one’s nerves. His status as the outcast only fuelled his need to disrupt and he was placed in a desk at the back of the room facing a wall to keep the class’s attention on the teacher and not his antics. No one missed him when he suddenly moved in the middle of the school year.

But there he was. In my new town, in my new class, and he was smiling with a glimmer of recognition. He was still just as disruptive and in my first week he was kicked out of class for stapling his own hand for attention. But now everything was different; I was the new kid and he was an instant friend in an unfamiliar environment, something only someone who has been uprooted as a child could truly understand.

I noticed that in addition to his behavioural issues, another thing he had not rid himself of was the dark red rash on his upper lip, owed to a nervous habit of sucking on his upper lip whenever he felt uncomfortable. As the months dragged on it would disappear and reappear. It wasn’t until many years later I would realise how strange it was that my parents would sometimes invite him to stay over for a week at a time or have him stay for dinner night after night. Youthful naivety.

As the summer came and went there were multiple instances of Michael acting out in various ways. Our house at the time was a big log house with a balcony to the third floor overlooking the “great room”. Once Michael climbed over the railing and then jumped down, attempting to land on the couch below. He would’ve smacked straight into the floor if my father hadn’t been walking through the entrance and ran to catch him. Even though he got in trouble, he never stopped laughing about how cool it would have been.

Another time he brought a stack of porno magazines over. He said he stole them from his mom’s closet and that there were so many she’d never notice. I had never seen anything like that before and freaked out. “Get rid of those! If my parents see they’ll kill me!” I said. Michael’s smile faded like I had just rejected him. A couple weeks later my mom was riding her horse past a bunch of bushes and spotted the discarded magazines; a neighborhood meeting was called and the parents in the area were hyper vigilant for a spell, thinking some leering sicko was leaving smut around for the kids to find.

Fifth grade started too soon. Over the summer I had still not made any new friends and felt just as lost as before. Michael would call me on the phone after school and we’d talk about music and girls and motorbikes. One day he called me and I could hear moaning in the background. When I asked what it was he replied that he had gotten in to his mom’s closet again and found a homemade video tape of his mom and stepdad having sex. I was mortified. I didn’t even know parents did stuff like that, not to mention how sick it is to watch your parents fuck.

A few weeks later my parents had Michael stay over on a school night, which was pretty odd. After school the next day he came home with me and that night his biological father showed up to pick him up. Something strange was going on, but no one was telling us anything. I said goodbye and told him I’d see him at school. But I wouldn’t see him at school for the rest of the week or ever again.

The following Monday my fifth grade teacher sat on his desk at the front of the class and told everyone to quiet down and listen. He had tears in his eyes and was choking up a bit as he told us that Michael would no longer be coming to class. Michael had been removed from his mother’s care and sent to live with his dad.

“You’ll probably hear some things about his family and I don’t want to lie to you - they’re true. There are sick people in this world and you all need to be aware. If anyone is touching you or trying to make you do things you know aren’t right, tell someone. When this happens to someone, it’s not their fault.”

As it turns out, Michael’s mother and stepfather were arrested for production of methamphetamines and in the ensuing search of their residence evidence of other crimes was uncovered. They had been producing videos of their sexual abuse of Michael’s older brother and sister, much of which Michael had witnessed firsthand.

Even at ten years old, all the dots began to connect and the picture became clear. His behavioural issues, his constant need for validation, his obsession with sex at such a young age… it was all symptomatic of what he was experiencing at home. This realisation jolted me out of my youthful haze. Everything was crystal clear and I could finally see just how fucked up it all was.

I wish there was a happy ending to the story, but there isn’t. I recently Googled his name and found a few news articles. Michael grew up to be a serial rapist and is currently serving time in a state penitentiary.