SCI Topic #5: Softness
I am thirteen years old. I lay in the darkness wakened by the sound of my bedroom door opening. I peer into the darkness but can’t see who’s standing in my doorway. My heartbeat accelerates as I hear the door close and a shuffle of footsteps draw near me. My breath catches in my throat and my bed sags as he sits on the edge next to me. I feel his hand on my head as he strokes my hair. The smell of alcohol mixed with sweat is strong, cloying, almost overpowering to me. I can feel his eyes on me intently, boring into me. I close my eyes, pretending to sleep.
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
Though somewhat slurred, the softness with which he speaks to me belies a pain, a sadness, perhaps even a loneliness within him that I’d never seen before.
“I know,” my voice seems small to me.
His hand strays from my hair down to my face. I feel a shudder run through me as he runs his fingertips down my arm and his hand comes to rest on my hip.
“I love you so much,” he says.
I’m too stunned to react for a moment as his hand slides up my shirt and he fumbles with my breasts. I start to struggle and thrash, trying to pull his hand out from under my shirt.
“Please stop,” I say, my voice seeming even smaller. “Stop, please!”
“Ssssshhhh,” he says. “It’s okay. I love you. It’s okay, I promise. You’re so beautiful.”
His breathing grows heavier as he touches me, fondles and pinches me. He lets out a moan as he takes my hand and places it on him. I’m too small and too weak to resist and can feel my stomach twisting and roiling as he makes me touch him.
“Stop,” I yell as he slides his other hand down into my pajama bottoms, touching me. “Get out! Stop it!”
The breath is driven from me as I’m flipped over and am forced face-first into my pillows. I feel one of his hands pressing down on my head, keeping me from crying out again as he tears my pajama bottoms off with his other.
“Sssshh now, it’s okay,” he says. “I love you. It’s okay.”
I struggle to break free but can’t break his grip. The pain cascades throughout my body as he enters me. He pushes my face down even harder into my pillow, muffling the scream that is escaping me. The pain makes my entire body feel like it’s on fire as he moves and thrusts inside of me and I can feel the tears spilling down my face. The sound of his grunting and groaning provides a macabre soundtrack and to keep from focusing on the pain, I concentrate on how soft the sheets are beneath my body and how soft the pillows are beneath my face. Eventually he’s finished and a pool of dampness on my sheets that’s part him, part my blood and part my tears is all that remains.
The next morning I struggle downstairs, the pain in my body agonizing. I find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, staring vacantly out the window as she sips a cup of coffee. She gives a start as she notices me, seems to ignore the discomfort that’s painted on my face and gives me one of her brightest and most forced smiles.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she says, her voice chipper and bright. “Your father had to leave early this morning. He’s got a big trial to prep for, you know. But he wanted me to tell you that he loves you and to have a good day.”
The nausea rises within me and I struggle to keep it down. “Mom,” I say and I curse myself for sounding so weak. “Last night daddy-“
“So what shall we have for dinner tonight? I have to go run some errands but I thought I’d make us something special.”
“Mom,” I say. “I have to tell you something-“
“Sorry honey, I’m running late,” she says. “I have to get moving. I’ll figure something out.”
“But Mom,” I say as the tears begin to spill down my cheeks. “Daddy did something to me last night! Something bad.”
She sighs and stands up. “Janey,” she says. “Your father is under a lot of stress with this trial and we really don’t need these kinds of attention-seeking distractions from you.”
“But Mom-“ the sobs wrack my body.
“What? What is it Janey?” My mother shouts, rage and contempt painted on her face. “You’re too old for these kinds of silly little fantasies. We don’t have time for your bullshit!”
I turn and flee to my room, slamming the door behind me. I hurl myself onto my bed, sobbing, not knowing what to do. Eventually, the exhaustion overtook me and I sank into a dark, dreamless sleep. I woke some time later, the house silent and still. My breath caught in my throat as I looked to my nightstand and found a heart-shaped locket made of white gold bearing the inscription: “For Daddy’s Little Princess… I love you.”
I vomit all over my carpet.
*****
I am fifteen years old and lie in the darkness as I listen to my bedroom door being opened. My heartbeat no longer accelerates nor does the nausea rise within me like it once did as I hear him drunkenly shuffling toward my bed. Another big trial, a lot more stress and even more drink brings my father to my room once again. It seems there is a never ending supply of those things.
My bed sags as he sits on the edge and begins stroking my hair, the smell of alcohol mixed with sweat is strong, cloying, almost overpowering to me. And we begin our ritual, our dance once again.
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
“I know, Daddy.”
I push the blankets back and lie naked before him. I close my eyes and disconnect myself from my body as he begins to use me. I focus on the soft sheets beneath me and dream of a faraway world with azure skies and pure white sand. A world in which I am truly and utterly free.
As always, he finishes with a groan and a grunt, leaving his spilled seed on my sheets. And at some point the next day, a beautiful and expensive trinket appears in my room just like always. And just like all the others, it’s thrown into a box that is tucked beneath my bed.
*****
I am eighteen years old and lie in the darkness of my bedroom. I hear his footsteps pass by my bedroom door without pausing. In the silence that is envelops the house like a vacuum I hear him open my little sister Hannah’s door. The floor creaks as he goes inside and the door clicks softly as he shuts it behind him. I know that come tomorrow, my sister will have a new necklace or bracelet waiting for her. I know that come tomorrow, my twelve-year old sister will be Daddy’s new little princess.
And the jealousy I feel is eating me up inside.
*****
I am twenty years old and sit on the edge of my bed in the darkness. I hate my family, I hate the world but more than anything, I hate myself. I have slept with more men than I can count. Some older, some younger, some I didn’t even know. I was willing to spread my legs for anybody and everybody that wanted me. I don’t know how many men and boys I went through before I realized that I was chasing something that I could never have again, that I was trying to fill a ragged hole that had been torn through my heart and soul. As I watched my little sister grow, knowing she’d be far more beautiful than I ever would and seeing her flash all of those little trinkets, like those under my bed, I knew that I’d never be Daddy’s Special Little Princess again. I was replaceable. Expendable. I was nothing. Worthless. That it was something I wanted and needed so badly sickened me beyond belief but I couldn’t stop myself from wanting it, needing it all the same. I loathed and despised myself.
It’s late and the house is silent and still. The smell of the gasoline is strong, cloying and almost overpowers me. The tears stream down my face freely. I shuffle out into the hallway, stopping before my Daddy’s door, listening to him snoring inside, wishing I could be everything to him again and hating myself for it.
I kiss the door and walk to the head of the stairs before lighting the match and dropping it on to the saturated carpeting. The fire springs to life, eating and consuming everything in its path. I walk down the stairs and out the front door, breathing in the cool night air.