Author’s note: There is rape in this, beware, however it’s not very descriptive- at all. Just enough to get the picture. I wrote this for English. I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me what you like and don’t like. Thank you!

When I used to look into my father’s eyes, I saw something else, something beyond the whiskey-colored irises, the black pupils fluctuating, and the retinas hidden behind them. I saw, in their stead, a serene lake, eluding a sense of quiet and harmony.

The stagnant waters of the lake are calm and peaceful, unpolluted by the noise and filth of the outside world.  In places, a thin film condenses on the surface of the lake, creating slender ash gray tendrils of froth that listlessly drift. The water reflects a deep slate gray, tinged with smears of golden amber, chocolate brown, and other hues of muted blacks and browns. Up on the bank, tree trunks decorated with round spots of gray fungus seemed to bend towards the river, envious of the water’s still tranquility.  Scraggly bushes, victim to autumn’s harsh touch, crowd the banks.  His eyes were a lake in sepia, a quiet reflection of himself present in his eyes.

His eyes don’t look like that anymore. They look like plain brown eyes, sometimes chaotic in rage, sometimes apathetic with the numbing effects of alcohol, and sometimes void of everything and anything, an empty void in space.

If you asked me when this all started I couldn’t give you an honest answer; I don’t believe there is a specific date when my father changed from the man who would take Gabrielle, my sister, and I to baseball games on Sundays and make sundaes with us on rainy Friday nights while we watched old movies.  My father had changed gradually in subtle ways while I wasn’t looking, and now I was terrified of what he had become. Sometimes he seemed like an empty vessel, devoid of feelings, simply going through the motions of life, drowning his sorrows nightly in a glass of alcohol. And at times, I wondered if he even knew he had two children, or if he just didn’t care.

Lately, I had noticed how his lips were drawn taut at the corners, how his eyes were dull and tired, how he seemed oblivious to everything going around him, except when I did things wrong. I noticed how an item out of place or an unkempt room seemed to make him furious now and how he was more likely to give physical punishments now.  I also noticed how I was more susceptible to my father’s rage than ‘Elle was, the sole thing I was glad that my father did.

My father had suddenly thrust me into the roles of cook, housemaid, and taking care of Gabrielle. It was hard at first and I was punished for burning the toast, for not dusting the living room right, for not ironing the laundry.  Finally, I got a teetering hold on it.

This was my life, like it or not. Everyday was spent hoping in vain that my father would revert to his old self, become once more a man I loved. Everyday I spent being more mature than people twice my age. Everyday the flame inside me dimmed a bit further. I never stopped to think that maybe life wouldn’t be this way forever, that maybe some day it might be something else. I never thought it could change so drastically in a single day…

***

It was late, nearing one o’clock in the morning already. I lugged my broken body to bed once again, welcoming the cool sensation of the sheets against my inflamed body. I sighed and closed my eyes, not giving in tonight to the tightness in my throat, the heaviness of my chest, the pricks in my eyes, even though I knew no one could see me in the dark.

            …Children laughed gaily, the joyful stream of sound bouncing around, hitting an invisible wall, doubling back, and overlapping and under lapping itself. A sharp crack tore a jagged tear through it, scattering the laughter near and far, shattering it’s bubbling essence. Cries of encouragement took its place, with faint undertones of bated breath and silent oppositions.

            The ball flew straight and true to the outer edges of the field, and a small blonde boy ran forward, the wind blowing his loose curls about. A shout in particular echoed in this boy’s ears, and he began to turn his head to search out the source.  A soft violin chord began to shrill, crescendoing with each increasing degree the boy’s head turned.

            By the time the boy’s nose was revealed, the screeching note had reached teeth-grating, spine-twanging proportions. The boy’s running seemed to slow before finally stopping. The strident note seemed to be suspended in the air, ringing but not increasing.

             He stopped, and then turned completely around, smiling. The shrill seemed to disappear, to be replaced by the faint sound of a frenzied heartbeat, with good reason.  A grotesque vision greeted the eyes; a gaping flesh wound filled the boy’s face with a horrifying pulchritude. Yellowed bone jutted out, forming a stark contrast with the torn and ravaged crimson muscle and blood. Blood dripped down languorously onto a sickly mixture of coal black, dull indigo, and wan yellow. The morbid contusion stuck out in blunt contrast and suddenly I realized why he looked so familiar.

            He was me.

I tore out of the dream, entering consciousness, slightly cold from the sheen of sweat on my body. I gasped for breath, my ribs shouting out in unheard pain at my jerky movements. I licked my dry lips and frantically glanced around the room, making sure there was nothing to harm me. I slowed my breathing down finally, glancing at the clock. I read 5:10 in blinking red numerals.

Groaning, I slowly slid out of bed, careful not to rub any painful spots. I walked down the hall to the bathroom, warming up a shower before stepping inside. The warm water soothed and loosened my sore, stiff muscles and relaxed my shot nerves. I allowed myself a few minutes of extra time in the shower, hurrying through brushing my teeth and hair to make up for it. Swiftly, I donned my usual plain blue jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt.

Stumbling downstairs, I began the same monotonous activity of many mornings past. Pour the batter made last night. Crack the eggs in the skillet. Slice the tops of the strawberries off, then cut in half. Flip the eggs. Arrange strawberries on plate. Put eggs on plate in a minute. Fork waffles on when done. Set table. Place plate on table and cover with metal lid. Put potholder down for coffeepot when it’s ready. Clean house before scrounging up some food to eat myself.

I waited for the sound of footsteps upstairs. I dreaded when he would finally come down; I dreaded another day of serving this cold persona of my changed father.  There, the execution bell rang, and fears thudded in my breast as I realized those thuds on the stairs were his. I scramble to grab the coffeepot and place it on the table, before scrambling back to my spot in the shadows of the kitchen.

I unconsciously held my breath as he entered, his shadowy form filling the doorway.  He sat down, dropping himself roughly into the chair and began eating. Soon he was done, and he left the kitchen, not once acknowledging that I was there or anything at all.

Ignoring the muted throbbing in my chest, I started upstairs to wake Gabrielle. I gently shook her awake, smiling as she blinked sleepily at me. “Morning, ‘Elle. C’mon, time to get up and at ‘em.” She nodded and I grabbed my backpack from the desk before heading back downstairs, to make another quick breakfast of cereal.  Soon, she was downstairs and I fixed her blonde, curly hair that was so like mine into a half ponytail with bow while she ate. Once she was done, we headed out the door and to the bus, which would take us to school.

Arriving at the kindergarten doorway, I hugged Gabrielle goodbye and kissed her forehead. Her pale blue eyes seemed troubled today and I wondered what it was that she was concerned about. Frowning, I headed off to my own fourth grade classroom.

Once again, I pretended not to hear the whispers or see the pointed fingers as one by one the other kids in my class noticed the dark shiner around my eye. I had heard what they said; that I was a vicious street fighter who got in a brawl every night, that I had taken a vow of silence as part of the ‘gang’ I was in. I didn’t discourage them; instead, I let them invent excuses for me.

As a result of the rumors, kids stayed mostly away from me, and teachers rarely called on me. When I was, however, I gave short, to-the-point answers. I left the room as soon as the bell rang, picked up Gabrielle, and took the bus home.

We were walking up the drive, hand in hand, laughing at something ‘Elle had said. I lifted my head, looking for the bird that was chirping but my gaze fell on something else instead. My dad’s car in the driveway.

“This isn’t possible,” I thought. “Dad is not home. His car is not in the driveway. This is just some sick part of my imagination.” I shut my eyes and opened them again, but the car was still there. I clutched ‘Elle’s hand tightly, my anchor in this slow-motion horror show.

I gulped, the hard ball in the back of my throat hindering it. I walked up to the door; Gabrielle’s hand was still clutched in mine, and I turned the doorknob. The door didn’t budge. I threw my weight against the door, feeling it give under my push, and stepped inside hesitantly. I was struck by the eerie feeling that I was trespassing onto forbidden enemy battlegrounds.

I pulled Gabrielle behind me, turning and bending to whisper in her ear. “Gabrielle, if Dad is here and in one of his moods, I want-- need you to run up to our room when he’s not looking, and lock the door. Do not come out, even if I’m screaming for you.  No buts, ‘Elle. Promise me you won’t come out, at all. Promise.” I whispered fiercely, desperately needed assurance she wouldn’t get hurt.

“I promise.” She whispered quietly, her eyes wide with terrified resolution. 

I kissed her on the top of her forehead quickly and smiled. “Good. When you get to our room, I need you to take out the first-aid kit, and have a tub ready to fill with warm water when I get back. I think tonight’s going to be bad,” I tell her, watching her lips take on a determined line, and I already see her setting herself up to become my little nurse, “And I don’t know how I’m going to be. If it’s morning, and I haven’t come up, I want you to call one of your friend’s mothers and tell them about the…situation.” I finish, already hating myself for igniting the spark of fear in her eyes. I see her nod quickly and I turn around, pulling her behind me, and step forward.

We arrive in the kitchen, and both of us gasp a little, even though it’s not a surprise. He’s leaning against the wall, swirling a glass of alcohol in one hand, the other tapping out an unwritten rhythm on the wall. I step forward, detaching myself from Gabrielle. “Father.” I say softly, awaiting his judgment.

 He steps away from the wall, and from the subtle roll of his shoulders, I can already tell this is going to be bad.  “Lucas,” he hisses scornfully, and I flinch at the way my name sounds on his tongue. So disgusted. “What is wrong with you?” he starts, launching headlong into a long rant. “The kitchen is a mess! Dishes aren’t done! The counter is dirty! Pans from this morning are sitting on the range!” I guiltily take in the mess of the kitchen; the pans on the stove, the dirty dishes on the counter, and the knife from slicing strawberries still resting near the edge of the table.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper. “I thought I had time, that you weren’t going to be home-” I cut myself off, finishing lamely, “I’m sorry.” My voice cracks, tears spring to my eyes.

“Not good enough!” He roars. I never notice ‘Elle slip away upstairs, don’t even see my father’s fist grab my shirt. I feel, quite vividly however, the poke of the doorframe in my back, as he slams me against it. I’m aware that I’m blubbering apologies through my choked throat, holding the tears at bay. My father, infuriated at this response, releases his rage full force upon me.

I don’t realize right away that he’s cleared a portion of the table and laid me on top of it. I don’t realize through the haze of pain that he moves away for a few moments, moments that I could’ve escaped. I do notice the icy hot pain of the knife ripping through my skin. I scream as he traces a line from my collarbone to my navel. My shirt is cut away, and my jeans are ripped off, for better access to my pale flesh. Through hazed eyes, I lock my stare upon his eyes that are intent upon my body. He is carving my skin into an artistic masterpiece; ever so often, he takes a finger and dips it in a pool of my gathering blood and paints a winding streamer of crimson.

I scream aloud at this new level of pain and I cannot hold the tears anymore; they overwhelm me and spill over my face. I close my eyes in shame, angry with my body for betraying me. Suddenly I feel a warm wetness caressing the trail of tears, and my eyes are startled open, and through the mistiness I see my father licking my tears away.

The pain of the knife disappears under the suffocating blanket of fear draped over me. My heart beats faster; I can almost feel it pound against my rib cage. I feel as my stomach and limbs turn cold, a solid chunk of ice freezing me inside out. I can’t breathe and for a second stars burst upon my eyesight before air returns to my lungs. Somehow, through my constricted sore throat, I manage to rasp out a tearful inquiry. “Dad?” I call. “D-dad, w-what-t are you d-doing?”

He merely moans; he seems not to have heard me at all. Suddenly, he presses the tip of the knife into my shoulder, and I scream with fresh scorching pain.

Suddenly he’s on top of me. At first I think he’s merely holding me down, keeping me from grasping my shoulder in pain, and then he leans forward, closing his eyes, brushing his lips over mine. My heart stops, and everything begins to faze out along the edges before coming back into focus.

The gentleness is short-lived, with reckless abandon he ravages my lips, biting and chewing…it hurts so much, so very much. My horrified cries are muffled, and for a fleeting moment I worry about Gabrielle coming down or being hurt…

My body is being jerked this way and that, and I focus on my father again, seeking out his eyes. I look hard at them, thinking maybe perhaps that the answer lies in them. They are no longer empty but instead filled with lust and ruthlessness. If I concentrate hard enough, I can see the spark hidden behind all the tumultuous layers, and I feel the flame die away in realization. Smiles and good behavior could not get that spark back so many months ago, but now, in one act of violence and filth, it is back, veiled but present.

My underwear is torn away and the bile rising in my throat spills out. I look up; the ceiling turns black around the edges. My father is pushing, grunting and then a flash of pain wracks my body and I am sure that I am not going to see Gabrielle ever again. The ceiling black out entirely and I mercifully slip into a state of numb unconsciousness.

The next thing that I know is that I slowly crawl from under my father’s limp body and miraculously make it up the stairs. I scratch at the door in sheer exhaustion, and Gabrielle opens the door, crying out in shock.

I remember faintly the paramedics coming. I remember the stretcher and thinking that the neighbors will be mad for the disturbance. And then everything went black.

***

A wave of shock slides down my body and I shiver, wiping my eyes to read the last few lines of the letter that my adopted son, Lucas, had written to me. The caseworker had told me he had been abused, but this…

I was inundated with a flood of grateful happiness that my wife and I had given these two a home. They were so special to us…Lucas…

I ran out into the backyard in search of him and running to him, I fall to my knees and hug him, my heart giving a painful twang when I feel him flinch at the touch. For a moment he freezes and then warms, relaxing into my embrace, crying into my neck. Gabrielle comes over and hugs him too, the innocent reassurance of a sibling.

As I hold the tear-wracked body close, I begin to wish I could make their father pay for what he has done, tarnished these wonderful, innocent children. How I wish…