The creaking of the door comes before the sound of the footsteps. She tightens her eyes and then freezes hoping that the footsteps retreat. Then she feels the mattress depress and the blankets shift. Goosebumps rise on her skin as the blankets pull to the side. Still she refuses to participate and plays the game of sleep and lifelessness. It never works, but she plays on anyway.
With the first touch, she turns her head and stares at the bows and hearts so lovingly painted on her wall. She focuses on the ones in the corner. These hearts and bows are her only connection now to reality telling her this is real and not a dream. Pink heart, blue bow, pink heart, blue bow and then back again to the beginning. She fights to hold back the damn of tears building by counting over and over again. It is her only escape. She will not let him see her cry.
She counts the same four items until the the voice whispers fear in her ear and the warmth of her blankets return. She listens for the footsteps to retreat, holding her breath until the door hushes shut concealing the unspeakable–the rape of her childhood.
Jolting.
It was just that way for me at 13. Reading that I could feel myself holding my breath, just as I did then. Frozen.
Whoo, that was a tough one to read.
This is what happened to one of my in-laws. They still associate with their father because Mr and Mrs Y play the victim card. This is exactly what happened to them, yet Mr and Mrs Y still call me up and wonder why I have a problem with seeing them. There is a right and there is a wrong. Thank you for sharing your experiences. It is really lonely, difficult and challenging trying to hold my ground.