A CHRONICLE OF SHAME - Chapter 1 - CRAVING

Val Saint-Michel in the 1950s is still a charming countryside near Quebec City, a countryside of modest homes, a retreat for poor folks, humble families who can afford only this simple vacation spot to spend the summer at little cost. There are many, many woods—mostly conifers—a forest already verging on boreal. A small river with crystal-clear water flows right beside the cabin my parents rent for the summer. We can swim, fish, hunt frogs and garter snakes. But on this particular afternoon, probably just as my father returns home from work, we are going, as a family, to swim at a nearby public beach. There, I remember very well, stand communal toilets that frighten me. They are damp and dirty, built on a concrete floor that is always wet and foul-smelling, with a few stalls fitted with varnished wooden doors. Sometimes, I have to go into that disgusting place, and it is my father who takes me there... But the beach is beautiful, sandy; the river is a little wider and deeper than elsewhere. For an evening swim on a warm day, my father must prefer this place. My mother has prepared a picnic especially for this beach, this occasion, this gentle evening. I am five years old—five and four months.

Before we leave, I wait outside, in front of the cabin. There, right before me, is a short flight of steps leading up to the main door. Suddenly, the door opens; my father steps out of the cabin. He is laughing, talking to someone, his head turned back, probably toward my mother, who is still inside, taking her time. My little sister is quiet; she is two and a half. She stands off to the side, to my right, quite far from me, completely oblivious to what I am about to experience—to the anxious desire that will awaken, to the panic that will soon overwhelm me. She, too, is simply waiting for the moment to set off on this special outing to the little beach we rarely visit.

My father does not see me seeing him; he notices nothing troubling in this small, slightly skinny boy in his swimsuit, waiting silently. I can watch him freely, without fear of being caught observing him, without him wondering what I am truly seeing when I look at him. I let a flood of mental images arise—vivid, exciting—they grow sharper and engulf me, as if I am retrieving from deep within my mind some old films where everything was recorded, everything preserved, from a passionate sexual play we had, my father and I, long ago, when I was a very small child, perhaps even a baby. In this fantasy rapidly taking shape, we are now alone, he and I, somewhere else—I don’t know where—for a few moments that feel endless. I gaze at him hungrily. He is nearly naked—that is what strikes me first—and I am momentarily flooded with desire, with the anticipation of sexual excitement. The craving is immense, unrestrained, sensual, perverse—and it is as raw as it is true. My fantasy evolves quickly; I am already imagining the adventure, projecting it, seeing the two of us together, clearly, in his bedroom, in his bed. My father enjoys playing with his little boy, with his little body, because it is bold, playful, loving, and unbearably tempting. If only my mother and sister would disappear, my father and I could please each other, the way we know brings us true pleasure. We both know this—lying on his back, me sitting on his sex, bouncing on him like a horse, laughing loudly, my small hands running all over his body.

And then suddenly, suddenly, terror strikes me—obliteration.

Anguish devastates me like a violent shock wave surging from my feet to my head. I am caught in a whirlpool, horrified, swept away by abomination. I had no right to think this, to want this—to desire my father and to remember the pleasure he once took in my body, with my sex, with me. I knew I had to forget—it was an order—there was a threat, an unspeakable shame that would cut me off from the world if I failed to erase the memory of those delirious, secret moments. And now, I have betrayed a secret simply by recalling them—because my father appeared before me, nearly naked—because I have seen him naked before, and I know how to arouse him. I felt that pleasure in my body again, in my hands, my sex, and I wanted to do it again, with him, one more time. But I know, suddenly, violently, that it is forbidden to remember in detail this sexual amusement that no one must see—neither the gestures, nor the laughter, nor the excitement, nor the exalted, terrifying joy. Now I remember, and now I know. And I must do nothing to let anyone suspect that I know—but I will never forget.

I am in danger of disgrace and rejection. I am ashamed. My stomach hurts; I feel nauseous; I disgust myself. I become unreal and insane; I have no blood, no skin. I am afraid I will die to erase the memory. I am afraid I will have to isolate myself completely—without family, without friends. That is the punishment promised to wicked little boys who are, in fact, dangerous if they talk too much, if they desire too much, if they lose control. Everything is falling apart around me—it is inevitable solitude, the plunge into emptiness, exile to the land of Cain—it is abandonment and contempt. Who will dress me, feed me, love me? I nearly revealed something terrible by provoking my father’s desire, by almost making him give in. I nearly overturned the natural, immutable order of families and unleashed hatred; I nearly spoke of an unspeakable pleasure that happens in the dark when you let it happen—in my room, or my father’s room—where there is a large mirror fixed to a dresser, and where I have often looked at myself—startled, fascinated, a stranger to myself.

I am horribly alone with this thing I know—this craving for debauchery that degrades me forever. Sadness buries me. I look down at the ground, then to the side, toward the river. I see my little sister still waiting—happy—babbling softly, perfectly content, fascinated by her bright white, brand-new swimsuit. How could I have taken such a risk? I feel unbearably guilty. I am ashamed of myself. From now on, day by day, it is survival that begins. I dread the unspeakable danger might return—and that I will truly have to die. And I am only five years and four months old.

Story continues: https://histoiredelahonte.blogspot.com/2025/02/a-chronicle-of-shame-chapter-2-downfall.html