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 the Flanders, with a strong accent from those parts. He was a bit slow, a little bit mentally challenged. 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 car with two handlers, men like bricks who didn't really ever speak; they just handled, like robots. It seemed like a long drive. The handlers smoked, but we could not open the windows. My little friend was scared, and I told him, putting a comforting arm around him, that he did not need to worry, that everything was going to be alright. He looked inquisitively up at me. I believed in that moment that I really was going to be able to protect him, and he believed me.
When he lay 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.
When 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 breathed fresh smoke-free air.
The men quickly guided us 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. He 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 were two more men. One banged on a door once with the side of his fist, 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. I understood that it should have been me, that the boy was to be used for sex. But, the American did not like this boy. He did not like that this boy was special. He decided that I would do, and that the boy would be "taken.”.
I pleaded with them 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, that he was used to this, and that he would be satisfying. The American acted as if I was an annoying outsider in a business transaction that did not concern me. He went out the door, and the handlers grabbed us. I grabbed my little friend and we tried to hold onto 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 and 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. Suffice it to say I have felt the weight of this loss my entire life. 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 of the abusers, while my love for the other children 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.
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, teaching what it means to love.