One man’s downfall, #MeToo, and the rising up

When I was ten years old a man at least six times that number pulled me against him and pressed his hot, wet lips against mine. It was New Year’s Eve, a rare night on which us kids were allowed to join the revelry of the grown-ups downstairs, and the clock had just tipped us into 1992. Around me adults swirled, jovial and drunk, as I had seen them become so many times before while peering down at our living room from between the shadowed rungs of our upstairs bannister. Between exclamations of ‘Happy New Year!’ and ‘Can you believe it’s 1992?’ some of them were locked in their own embrace. No-one had seen the man kiss me, or if they did they didn’t think enough about it to feel uncomfortable. In the background ‘Auld Lang Syne’ began to play. Everyone around me started to sing, so I did too.