I looked over at Daddy. He was watching us. His eyes were hard, like cold coins in the dark. I hoped she would notice. I begged her to notice. But she never does.
“Athens, enough,” Daddy said, pulling me out of her arms like I was a toy he owned. “Your mother has to leave.”
“Cliff,” Mommy said gently, “she’s just a little girl-”
“I said go. I’ll handle her.”
He always handles me.
Mommy’s smile faltered, but she let him guide her to the door. “I’ll be back before you know it, baby,” she said, still trying to make it sound okay. Still pretending she wasn’t leaving me in a nightmare.
“Please… don’t go,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around her waist one last time.
“That’s enough,” he growled.
The door shut with a final click. Not loud. Not slamming. Just… final.
I didn’t cry. There’s no point. Because I already know what comes next. And it’s not a bedtime story.
Athens — Age 6½
Daddy only comes into my room when it rains.
The louder the thunder, the quieter he moves. I think he likes it best when the sky is loud, it hides his footsteps. Mommy doesn’t hear him on stormy nights, even though she sleeps just down the hall.
She’s been trying to be home more lately. I heard her yelling at Daddy last week, saying she wanted to stop working nights so she could stay with me. He said no. He got really angry. Slammed a door.
It didn’t matter. Even when she’s home, she sleeps too deep to know he’s there.
It used to be stories. Narnia. Aslan. His voice would get low and soft when he talked about the lion. Back then, he stayed on the other side of the bed with a pillow between us. Now, he moves the pillow. Now, he calls it 'our special time.”
Now, he touches my legs. My belly. The places my nightgown doesn’t cover.
Sometimes I pretend to sleep and hope he stops.
But when I flinch, or say no, he hurts me.
He says it’s my fault. That I make him do it.
He says, “Daddy has to make sure you're still pure. That you stay good. That you're ready when it’s time.”
I don’t know what time he means.
But I know it’s not bedtime anymore.
He started using the belt when I fought back. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t scream. He just makes me cry without a sound, and tells me I’m learning.
I tried to tell Mommy. I almost did. Once.
But he was standing in the hallway. Watching. Smiling.
That night, the belt came out again. He told me next time, it wouldn’t be the belt.
So I didn’t tell her.
But one day, I will. One day I’ll scream loud enough that even the thunder can’t hide it.
And when I do… I hope Mommy hears.
