The Grandfather.

His name was John but everyone called him Jack. He used to look after us (myself and my sister) during the school holidays while my mum worked. He was a quiet man who never talked too much or even seemed to show much emotion. He was a hard worker and his body showed the years he had spent in physical labour. He smoked regularly and would sweat a lot in the hot weather. We were never close. We remember having to give him a kiss hello and goodbye on the cheek, but other than that I do not recall any affection at all. He lived with his wife, (my Nana), the Matriarch of the family, in a house surrounded by almond tress. 180 if I remember correctly. We spent much of our childhood either helping with the harvest of the almonds, or playing amongst the sour sobs that grew below the trees in winter. There was plenty of open space to play and hide.
Every one seemed to love him. He was quiet and gentle and I don't ever recall him raising his voice. The family always said "he has the patience of a saint" as he used to calmly deal with life and family.
We used to call the grandfather 'Papa", but we cant say it now...not with out much effort. He was all the things I have said above, but he was also much more. When we were 8 years old, he held us down by our wrists on the boot of his car, and with anger I did not often see in him, He Raped us. He seemed angry, he was forceful and it hurt. He went right inside us, hard and pumping. And when he stopped we got down from the back of the car and quietly went away. We felt so much shame, but he didn't seem to care. I hate him for it. He used to push some strange object in to my skin, so it hurt. It was made of wood but had sharp metal ends that would burn. This was not the only time he hurt us.
My name is Claire, I am 8 years old and this is my story.