The worst part about the way I was a victim was that I didn’t even know I was. The stepbrother made me believe that his touching me, the way he made me touch him was normal, in my mind it was how it was for everyone. This was just the way it was. The stepbrother never threatened me like most do, he tried to made me feel like I was part of his little game by telling me that this was “a big kid secret between the two of us”. I believed him for a few years until he started to hit me and spit on me when I wouldn’t cooperate. He would tell me that I was “a worhtless little slut” and that I deserved what he was doing to me. Over the years I began to believe him, I started to think that I truly was worhtless and that no one would ever love me. I learned after a few years that this was a secret, but it wasn't mine. Atleast it shouldn't have been. “Who could love used goods”, he asked me one night while he forced his "private area" into my mouth. “Why would anyone want you now, when I’ve already broken you.” I pictured myself being tossed into “the broken toy bin” in my kindergarten room. Thrown in among headless dolls and trucks missing wheels. I imagined being thrown in head first, my skirt sliding down towards my head, all the students and teachers seeing the blood stains in my panties, splattered across the teddy bear print. They would all know my secret, my classmates wouldn’t know whether to feel sorry or shameful for me. I knew that no one wanted a dirty broken girl, and that no one ever would. The joint actions of stepbrother and stepmother caused me to believe that my body was worthless. The purple and blue, marks of her abuse, placed perfectly to be hidden under clothes for school. And the secret wounds, in private places on my body and imprinted in my mind and soul, made by him and the way he was with me. I hated them both so much, but in a way I wanted to please them. I thought that if I dealt with what they did that that would have to love me. If I lasted through the years of hurt and confusion, in the end they would love me. I used to feel to dirty when he was done, not just physically but mentally as well. It confused me how something that I knew was so wrong could sometimes feel good. These feelings made me hate myself, as early as the age of six I hated everything about myself. I hated the way I looked, the way I felt and who I was. I took all my dolls and stuffed animals down off the shelves, I didn’t want them to see him doing these things to me, but mostly I didn’t want them to see that at times I enjoyed it. Alice.