WARNING!!

This story contains slightly graphic and questionable material, which includes references to rape. If you are under the age of 18, please think about what this story entails before you read it. I don't care if you read it, I just don't want a crap-load of flames loading up my inbox just because some brat forgot to read the warning.

---

Daddy Dearest

By Emilee Petersmark

People tell me that my daddy’s a bad man; they say he treats me cruelly. They tell me that he’s a monster for the things he does—they say I need to be taken away, to be safe. They say I’m not safe with Daddy. He hurts me.

But they don’t know. They don’t understand. Daddy’s only making me into a good little girl, so that I can go to heaven with him and mommy when I die.

Daddy loves me.

The belt flicks out again. And again. And again. The silver buckle leaves large, purple welts in its wake, marking the soft skin of my back and shoulders. Daddy grunts with effort behind me, snapping the heavy leather band over my fragile ribcage. I fight back tears as the weapon falls unmercifully on my shoulder blade, unwavering in its bite and force. But I don’t cry. I never cry. I am too grateful to cry.

Good little girls have nothing to cry for.

Daddy told me that I am the devil’s child, with my pretty face and growing body. He told me that a vessel of lust as I was would never go to heaven unless properly humbled. Daddy knows what’s best for me… he knows what to do to save me. So every night, Daddy punishes me to purge me from my original and accumulated sin, claiming with every flail that God will only have unassuming, ugly daughters.

The buckle snaps threateningly close to my face, and I can’t help but flinch.

I know that by now I am no longer beautiful. Though we have no mirrors in our house (mirrors promote vanity), I’ve felt the defacing burn scars that have been left in the wake of a lit cigarette over the once-smooth plains of my face. Daddy doesn’t smoke anymore, but back then he considered the cancer sticks a good source of redemption. My back must be just as repulsive, a gruesome mess of bruises, scars, and welts—each more disfiguring than the last—I smile. Heaven will have no choice but to accept me, in my meek, mutilated state.

The belt comes down against my lower back, breaking my train of thought momentarily with the harsh THWAK it makes as it meets bare skin. I squeeze my eyes to hold in the tears, but this time not from the pain. It must be so hard for my Daddy. He does such horrible things, all for me. Just to ensure my place at the Lord’s table.

Few men love their daughters that much. I must have been blessed to have one that did.

When he finishes, the skin of my back is so tender and raw that my brain begins to fuzz… my legs and arms tingle almost pleasantly and my brain cannot will them to move. I close my eyes, knowing that my purification is close at hand.

This is my least favorite part, and deep inside I’ve come to resent and fear it even though I know it is what I deserve. The sound of Daddy unzipping his pants makes me cringe, and as he pins me down he mumbles gruffly: “Bee good for the Lord, Abby.” He continues to talk to me as he finishes the deed, ramming his heavy body into my small broken one, taking no notice of my still-bleeding wounds and fresh bruises. This portion of my salvation makes my body scream in agony, an agony that continues until I pass out from the pain.

When I wake in the morning, I find myself tucked gently into bed, my wounds covered and treated. I still can’t find the power to move my limbs, but at least the horrible aching pain has dissipated somewhat; I manage to roll over and spot a note on the nightstand:

“The lord hath forgiven

You for your evil ways—

Do not forget, child of sin,

Only the humble and meek

Shall inherit the kingdom of the divine.”

I smile.

Not many other men would go through so much to save their children. People are wrong—my Daddy is anything but cruel to me—he is saving me. Saving me from my sinful ways.

My Daddy loves me.

---

Review please :)