Chapter 1
(A/N: Please note that this is absolutely fiction. I love my father, and
he's wonderfully amazing. He would never hurt me. Same with my mother,
sisters, aunts, uncles, brother-in-law, long-lost good twin (because I
would be the evil one), etc. etc.)
I'm sitting here, ever so silent, listening to the piano as played by
Beethoven, not ever wanting to get up and leave the music. The slow, steady
sounds caress my ears, rub the tension out of my shoulders and back, and
uncoil the knot in my stomach. I know, just KNOW that something terrible is
happening to someone, somewhere, and soon it will be happening to me. I
know that last part for a fact. My father is home, and he looks tense. Only
one thing could ever relax him.
Last time, he was so rough that he broke my wrist dragging me across the
house.
I go into my bedroom and sit down on my bed. I know what's coming, there's
no use fighting it. When I fight, it hurts more.
I still remember the first time it happened.
He came home that night, hugely tense from work. He was an environmental
lawyer; I couldn't blame him for being stressed out. So, as always, he came
into my room and sat down cross-legged on my bed so I could rub his neck.
Don't worry; it wasn't a sex thing at all. It was a lot like what my mom
used to do for me (before she died) when I had had a rough day at school. I
still remember what bedspread was on my bed that evening: it was moms'
favorite, white and pure. It creased and wrinkled, and I teasingly told him
that he was going to ruin my nice, virgin bed. I used the term "virgin"
meaning that since I had made it that afternoon, nothing else had touched
it, and he knew that. But I think the word must have struck something
inside him.
He turned around and took both my hands in his. "Kira, you look so much
like your mother. You know that, don't you? You know how beautiful you are?
You know how much I love you?" He had told me that before, but the way he
said it this time. I was worried.
"Dad. have you been drinking?!" I was mortified when he nodded slowly. Dad
never drank, ever. He always said that drinking had ruined his father, and
he refused to let it ruin him.
"Do you know what today is?" He asked, with a note of desperation in his
voice.
"How could I forget?" Today was the one-year anniversary of moms' death.
She had been dragged out of her car, raped, and murdered, on her way home
from work. Dad and I were playing checkers in the front room when we got
the news. We used to play it every night. now I cry when someone asks if I
want to play it. It freaks people out a bit. But anyway.
We were both crying; he opened up his arms and embraced me in a warm hug,
holding me close. I wrapped my arms around him, and lost my balance. I
hadn't realized that we had stood up - when had that happened? I fell over
onto the bed, dragging him with me. He fell on top of me, but didn't get
up. Suddenly, I was very aware of his breath. It didn't smell like alcohol.
He wasn't drunk. he was perfectly fine. Well, no. not fine. Not 'fine' at
all.
He pushed some hair away from my face, and whispered "So beautiful." over
and over again. I think that part of me knew what was going on, but that
part didn't bother to tell the rest of me. He jumped, as if surprised, and
got up. He told me to go shower (it was a thing I did after I had cried, it
always gave me a chance to mull things over but I couldn't STAND baths.). I
went into the bathroom and turned on the water, making sure it was steaming
hot before I got in. I heard the door open (hadn't I locked it?). "I'm in
here!" I shouted. I heard the door shut, so I assumed that dad had left. I
couldn't see a thing through the swirling white mist. Suddenly, the shower
door was ripped open, and the water turned off. A firm hand pulled me out
of the shower, and took me from my bathroom into my bedroom. (Yes, I did
just say MY bathroom. It was a two bed, three bath house, and each bedroom
had a bathroom attached, plus one guest bathroom. Nice, huh?) The person
(it couldn't be my dad, someone must have broken into the house.) threw me
onto the bed and stood there, looking at me struggle to get under the
covers (hey, I'm modest. Bite me.). I looked at his face. He looked like my
father, but it just couldn't be.
He took off his own clothes, and tore the covers away from the bed, getting
in on top of me. He pushed himself onto me, his fingers and head working
downward until all I could see was the top of his hair. I tried to stay
silent, but against my will I moaned in pain (I won't tell you what was
hurting, but I will tell you that it hurt like hell.). He took this for
pleasure, and came back up to eye level with me. He forced his mouth onto
mine, somehow pressuring my jaws apart, and kissed me. It was like a
nightmare, how could this be my father? As he kissed me, his tongue in my
throat, he did what I had feared, what I had planned to do only after
marriage, with someone I really and truly loved. But instead. my father. He
tangled his hands in my hair, and the other. no. I won't tell you that,
either. I pulled my head away from his mouth and yelled "NO!" but he didn't
pay much attention to that. I hadn't really expected him to. He said my
name, over and over, breathless. "Kira. Kira. Kira." I hated my name.
Especially when he said it like that.
I don't know how long it was. It felt like years. But he eventually got up,
went into his own bedroom, and I heard the sounds of a shower starting. I
lay there, sobbing, and eventually got up and bolted the door to my
bathroom - something dad had taught me only to do in emergencies, because
the regular lock was easy to pick, and made it to where if I slipped and
fell or something the paramedics could reach me more easily. But this WAS
an emergency, and I locked the door. And I cried.
The first time he did it, I was only fifteen years old. Not the most
popular girl in school, but not without friends. And not unhappy, although
a little withdrawn at times, because of my mothers' death. He's done it to
me nearly every night since. That was a year ago today. It's the second
anniversary of my mothers' death today, and I'm afraid.