Everyone has secrets, right? Things they wish to hide, light on fire, bury in their back yard and forget about for the rest of their lives? Memories, material things, incidents, the like.
My secret to burn is my father.
For many girls my age, their father is a fundamental role in their childhood: he teaches them their first words, takes them to their first ballet lesson, gives them the ability to laugh, to forgive, and to love. For me, Daddy was a monster. My own personal little demon. A hateful memory waiting for me when I got home from school.
When I was younger, I didn't know the things he was doing were wrong. I just thought he loved me more than Mommy. When he stumbled into my darkened room at night, his breath exuding whiskey, Daddy would whisper, "She doesn't love me like you do, my little flower. My little angel." And he would kiss me right on the lips, his beer-stained mouth tainting my own.
I can't even remember when it first started. Probably right around the time I started elementary school, when, on my initial day of first grade, he whispered ever so softly, yet ever so audibly, "Don't leave me, little girl. I don't want to be alone." At the time, in my six-year old innocence, giggled and replied, "Silly Daddy. I won't ever leave you."
This he seemed to take to heart, because that was the first night he came to my room. The details are a little fuzzy, as this was more than five years ago, but the pain stands out vividly in my mind. Waves of pain crashing over me, beating against me like the sea upon the shores.
My studies later brought me to know that pain was merely a perception, like sight or smell, and involves sensitivity to chemical changes in the brain, which interprets that the change is harmful, but the pain my father inflicted on me seemed so much more. It ripped me from the inside out and sat there when I was forced to keep my dirty little secret. I remember the second or third time Daddy visited my room, in the middle of first grade, there were bruises on my arms. Bruises: little windows into painful memories. Wishing that no one could see my bruises for fear of what Daddy would do to me, I hid my wounds behind books. Thousands of books I read, distracting my teachers and peers from the purple marks on my face, arms, and torso.
Now that it's the summer before secondary school, I'm eleven, and Daddy visits me more now than ever. Mommy's always away at work, often until nine or ten at night. In his loneliness, Daddy resorts to hard liquor, usually taking with him to his bedroom a whole bottle at a time. At night, I try my best to please him so he won't hurt me. When he does hurt me, I cry. I cry long and loud, because it hurts so much. It hurts, and God won't kill me and put me out of my misery. Daddy hurts me even more when I cry, telling me to shut up and that big girls don't cry when their fathers love them.
Right now, I'm dreading that moment when he walks in my doorway. Twenty-four steps from the living room to his bedroom, twenty-four drunken staggers. And twelve to mine. I count.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten
Eleven.
Twelve.
The footsteps stop outside my closed door, and I can practically smell the whiskey on his breath from my bed. I pray, pray to whatever God is up there, that he won't hurt me tonight. We learned about God in school, and He seems to be a nice, albeit unrealistic, concept. If there was a God, He wouldn't let bad things happen to good girls like me.
Tonight is the last night of summer. Warm and saturated with the scent of cookouts and the last of the season's azaleas, a bittersweet combination, it's too perfect a night to be ruined by him.
But my prayer seems to have been delayed on its way to heaven. Because my door opens, and my room is filled with the light of the hallway, save for the slouched silhouette of my demon. The floor creaks as he tiptoes to my bed, and I feel his sweaty body settle beneath the covers next to my own.
"Hey, little girl. Are you still young enough to be Daddy's little flower?"
My breath catches in my throat, and I'm almost unable to choke out, "Yes, Daddy."
"Good."
He's silent for a while, and I let out a silent sigh of relief, comforted by the small hope that he's fallen asleep. But my hope is short-lived, because Daddy soon turns over onto his side to stare into my eyes.
"You're so beautiful, Herme. And oh so smart. Daddy wishes you were his forever."
In the darkness, I could sense his tainted lips searching for my own. In a primal effort to stop his advances, my lips unconsciously tucked themselves into my mouth.
"Baby, why are you hiding from me? Don't you love me?" he groaned.
"I'm not hiding, Daddy, I'm just tired."
His groping fingers found the hem of my nightgown, pulling it up to my neck, letting himself explore my premature, naked body. When my hands stop him from pulling off my underwear, he grows angry.
"She never loved me! And now you don't love me!"
"I do love you, Daddy, I do!"
"Then show me, Herme, show me that you love me."
No daughter should ever have to go through this, and I know this even at my tender age. But even as my body screams and protests to his advances, I can't bring myself to fight back. I can't bring myself to make him stop hurting me, make him stop kissing underneath my panties, make him stop biting me where I scream.
When he's done, he redresses and exits the room, still staggering a little. I try to cover my naked body with the blanket, try to piece back the shreds of my underwear, try to piece back the fragments of myself he has torn away. No amount of cleansing can undo the sin that I now bear.
So I hide the bruises behind books, hide scars beneath pretty little sun dresses, and hide tears beneath a picture-day smile. But underneath this façade is a girl who wants to cry real tears and be held and comforted by a real Daddy.
----------------------------------
"Herme, get the mail."
Mommy's not home again, it's just me and Daddy. Daddy and me. Daddy and I.
For once, he's not piss-drunk. He's just sitting at the table with the newspaper in one hand and a bagel in the other, expecting the mail at his place. It's too early for whiskey anyway, only 8:32 in the morning.
The mail sits in a cute little pile underneath the mail slot, and as I pick it up, my eye catches my name on a corner sticking out.
The envelope is a strange material, old parchment, or the like. The address is unfamiliar, and everything appears to be written in emerald-green ink.
My name, Hermione Granger, is on the inside, too. So it's not a mistake. The letter reads:
Dear Ms. Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Students shall be required to report to the Chamber of Reception upon arrival, the date for which shall be duly advised.
Please ensure that the utmost attention be made to the list of requirements attached herewith.
We very much look forward to receiving you as a part of the new generation of Hogwarts' heritage.
Professor Minerva McGonagall
I had to read the letter several times. Could this be a cruel prank? My father's yell, still wanting the mail, interrupted my reverie. I walked in a daze to hand his waiting hand the remainder of the letters.
Real or not, this was my ticket out of this suburban hell. God had finally answered my prayers. I didn't care if Daddy would miss me. He could chase the train all the way to Hogwarts, and I could care less.
Either way, I was leaving my demons behind and never looking back.
