I wish I remembered his name, but names are hard. It was always safer never to even know any, so I could never accidentally reveal anything to anyone on the outside, because I had been graphically threatened to stay silent about whatever I witnessed or experienced inside the network.
He was seven, from Flanders with a strong accent from those parts. He was a bit slow, a little bit mentally disabled. I was nine and was extremely endeared by him. He trusted me instantly, and our connection transcended the physical, entering straight into the realm where only the most pure love can exist. That was a very good thing, because we were abused together. He remained innocent throughout and I wanted nothing more than to protect him, keep his innocence safe. I took on some things to keep him from them. It was a pleasure to have someone for whom to do this.
I tried to guide him through the abuse as best as possible and he accepted my guidance as if there was no abuse, as if my good intentions were all he absorbed. He would tilt his head as his big blue eyes smiled with the trust of a newborn, the curiosity of the wise child and the humor of the oppressed. I loved that little boy. And the abusers knew it.
One day we were put in a golden Peugeot 304 with two handlers, men like bricks who didn't really ever speak; they just handled, like robots. One of the men started out sitting in the back with us, but later moved to the front. It was a long drive. It was summer but we couldn't open the windows. My little friend was scared, and I told him, putting a comforting arm around him, that he didn't need to worry, that everything was going to be alright. He looked inquisitively up at me and I believed in that moment that I really was going to be able to protect him and he believed me.
We drove from the flat countryside in Belgium into the night, never stopping for food, but one of the men gave us one bar of chocolate from a store at the gas station. We were ravenous and I let my little friend have most of it, just taking one square for myself. After eating the chocolate he got tired and put his head on my lap. I stroked his short blonde hair looking at his angelic face with the overwhelming feeling of sweet love known to all true mothers. Or maybe it was a sister's love, I don't know. It was familial. It was very pure.
The morning revealed a landscape of majestic mountains, bright grey slopes with snowy caps in the distance under thin blue air. I had never been to the mountains, and guessed we must have reached the Alps in Switzerland. My little friend and I enjoyed the scenery. I pointed out a funny looking mountain top and he thought it was hilarious.
The car stopped. I felt a moment of icy cold fear pass through me. Trips in the network were always dangerous. But when the car doors opened, a whiff of incredibly lovely smelling air reached us and made me strong again, for him. I held him by the hand as we both took deep sniffs of the ionized air.
The men quickly guided us into a large door, into an underground tunnel that was lit by spooky torches with real fire on both sides of the walls into infinity. I squeezed my little friend's hand as we began our walk. It seemed endless. My little friend cried softly. I picked him up and carried him. One of the handlers pushed me, angry that I slowed them down. I didn't care. I held onto my little friend with all my might.
At the end of the tunnel was another door with two more men. One banged the wood once with the side of his fist, the door opened and another man appeared, much more prim than the handlers. He ordered that I set down the boy in fluent French with an American accent. I set down my friend and hid him behind my back, shielding him, my arms enfolding him best as I could. It became clear from the conversation between the four French speaking handlers and the American that one child was to be sacrificed. It should have been the girl and I understood that the American liked boys. That was why there were two children. But he didn't like this boy. The American didn't like that this boy was special. He decided that I would do and that the boy would be "taken," which I meant that the boy would be sacrificed.
I pleaded with them in my best French to take me instead, with urgent emphasis hitting my chest repeatedly with an open palm. I argued to the American that the boy was fine. I told him that I knew him and that I knew he would be satisfying. The American was not impressed. It was as if I was an annoying outsider in a business transaction that didn't concern me. He went back through the door and the handlers grabbed us. I grabbed my little friend and we tried to hold on to each other. I tried so hard to hold him. He was crying in his very high pitched voice, piercing my entire being as we were torn apart he was dragged away.
I cannot describe what followed. There is something I call information vomit, which is to overwhelm readers or listeners with facts about gruesome experiences, asking them to engage in trauma survival tactics and shut off their emotions just to get through. I never want anyone to numb their emotions. I've felt the weight of this loss my entire life and I can share hopefully just enough so that you can feel a little bit of that weight with me. Satanic Ritual Abuse is truly very difficult to reveal because it is so extreme. I lost my little friend in the worst possible way. I felt that it was my fault that he died. I felt that I had betrayed him.
The loss of my little friend profoundly changed me. I never again got close to any other child in the network and performed whatever needed to be done as efficiently as possible, removing myself as much as possible, not looking, not forming attachments to other children. I carried guilt about this, as if I betrayed all the other children in favor for the abusers, while my love for them remained buried along with the child I loved so much.
I spent forty six years stuck in grief over my little friend. In the last few days I reconnected with the deep and sweet love that I felt for him, flooded with memories of the troubled times we made better for each other, which had been hidden from my consciousness, hidden behind the attachment I would come to feel for the American who became an important abuser.
Now my grief is helping me to change and grow, as I understand minute details of my life in a new way and feel my love for innocent creatures infinitely expand. Finally I can lay him down to rest. My sweet little friend who never lost his innocence, who was an angel while he was here, come to teach what it means to love.