Sometimes it creeps up on me when I least expect it; an overwhelming rage, anger, fear, resentment and sadness. The memory of that night; a scar that will never heal; the “Devil’s Cut”.

The coarse corn stalks digging in my back; the smell of moist dirt and dampness of the night air. I look up at the stars in the sky completely unaware how I ended up flat on my back so quickly. Just a moment ago I was walking the path with my friend; headed home after taking a tractor ride with friends around the Island trail.

I was 13; a free spirit, barefoot without a care on Shelly Island; a community of over 270 lots on an Island in the Susquehanna River. Out of those 270 lots lots; I knew most of residents. Friends and family gatherings on the Island consisted of Chili cookoff’s, seafood fests, Christmas in July tractor parades and clean out the refrigerator parties for Labor day weekend. Of course every lot you visited; you were offered a beer, a warm seat, friendly smile and conversation.

By 13 I started to figure out that I liked boys. I was very much a tomboy; never missed an island football game, could throw a tomahawk with the best of the men during tomahawk poker games my Dad would host. By 13 I knew I liked alcohol too; the warm feeling I would get on my cheeks, the happiness that would flow, the feeling of freedom to strip and jump naked in the river at any spot with my best girlfriends; giggling ecstatically. My hair had grown quite long, brown and wavy with sun-kissed blonde streaks. I was definitely filling out the old swimsuit too and my mother had to get me a new one that year because certain areas didn’t fit quite right. We argued as I decided on a black cloth knit bikini. The neighbors would say things to my Dad, “You need to be careful with this one.” “She’s a heart breaker.” “She looks like a young Brooke Shields.” “Denny, you better keep a big stick.” I guess looking back I didn’t quite understand all the teasing and comments; I was still me, loved sports, swimming and water skiing. I didn’t see what was different; but they all did and harped my Dad constantly.

I could feel the spit hit my cheeks, the smell of cigarettes and beer wafting, but I kept my eyes closed; played possum I suppose. A blow landed to the right side of my head as I lay on my back; at that moment I realized it wasn’t just a blow. My father had buried his hand in my hair close to my scalp and began to shake my head violently from side to side. I reached up to grab his hands; one on either side of my head; I felt my scalp tug and pull. “You want to be the Island Whore!” “That’s all I’ve been hearing that you are running around this Island fucking messing around!” The hands released but I didn’t dare move; in the distance I could hear my friend crying; embarrassment creased over me, folded me in positions I never bent to before. I heard two thuds but didn’t feel pain as my father kicked me in the right ribs twice; shock spread over me, I opened my eyes and stared at the night sky. I didn’t say a word.