Instinctively, I recoil inside. Outwardly, I smile awkwardly and nuzzle his gnarled knuckles with my cheek as the same game begins again. I surreptitiously glance around to ensure that she cannot see me, but I know from his actions there is no reprieve. He would not be so careless as to openly display his lecherous intent if there was a chance someone could see him without being able to blame me for it. Goosebumps prickle along my chest as he fingers the tender flesh with his wretched calloused fingertips. Experience has taught me to pretend I enjoy this degradation; it steals some of his twisted pleasure. I just pray it doesn't allow him the misconception of believing I authorise his disgusting behaviour. I cannot tell her. She would never forgive or believe me if I did.
It is out of my love for her that I remain silent as he breathes heavily into my ear, grunting out his desires and my implicit instructions. I no longer wish to cry when I hear the words. I am numb to emotions. Should I recall that the whole sordid affair is wrong and that I am subjected to things no human should endure, my breakdown would be instantaneous. I refuse to allow tears to mar this supposedly ideal appearance. He just tries to comfort me and say everything is normal, or threaten to hurt her instead of me. I cannot allow that risk.
She means too much to know the ill yearnings her father hoards. I used to come up with excuses to avoid visiting her to escape from this treatment, but since he threatened to switch his attentions to her he knows I have no real choice anymore. She is carefree and innocent; I dare not interfere with that status.
The familiar nausea sinks into my stomach as he trails a finger along the inside of my jeans and against my strongest instincts, I whimper. As soon as I hear it, I bite hard on my lip until it shines white with no blood within it anymore. The wretched man takes this as a mark of exhilaration rather than as a sign that my resolve is cracking. I barely remember how exactly this revolting scenario began. I never forget the first time he touched me. That is engraved deep within my soul and will be there for the remainder of my life.
Six months ago. It was the seventeenth of July and instead of the expected blazing sunshine, the heavens were crying with all their might. She was on holiday in the tropics, and she was due to return that day. I remember blushing as I wondered to myself whether she'd regret wearing a bikini through arrivals as she'd threatened to do so if she achieved the perfect tan. I remember looking at the small collection of flowers held in my awkward grasp and wondering if she'd realise that it was a token of more than just friendship.
As the downpour became more violent, I raced the final few yards to her house, and hammered on the door violently. I was earlier than I'd said I would be, but there were lights on and I knew I could safely seek shelter here. Her mother had accompanied her to the exotic island, but her father was left behind to look after things. I had little memory of him before that day; he always shut himself away in the dank dark basement in the name of research. From what she'd told me, he was a fine researcher with a top government agency and they relied heavily on his work. I always assumed it to be true; they were never hungry or left wanting for anything.
Her beautiful figure always fit the latest clothing as though it was specifically tailored for her; maybe it was. I'm sure she must have realised that my gaze always lingered a little too long whenever she wore anything slightly revealing or snug and suspected that my interests in her were not quite platonic, but if she did she never mentioned it to me. I blushed again quite fiercely as I wondered again if she'd stroll through the hall in a bikini, and if she'd hug me close to her whilst wearing it...
The door opened and he greeted me. I was too embarrassed by holding a few crumpled flowers and being found mid-blush to meet his eye, so I failed to notice his eyes roving over my body. The weather had been fine when I'd left my house so my thin attire was clinging to my skin. In retrospect, I should not have worn a white shirt. He casually mentioned that I was far too early for meeting her at the airport, and how there were things he needed to do before we could leave.
I remember nodding and muttering, wondering if she'd appreciate me looking so scruffy. I'd spent ages fixing my appearance to what I hoped would meet her approval before leaving my house but had forgotten to examine the skyline as I wandered along. My desire for her choked my grasp on my surroundings and the first I knew of the heavy storm was when large fat droplets of rain fell on my face to cool my ardour.
It was as if he read my mind. He ushered me along to the bathroom to grab a towel. I remember looking at the flowers, wondering if I should discard them or if she'd find some charm in their tattered appearance. I secretly hoped that if they met her approval then so would I. He suggested I took a warm shower to avoid a cold invading my system and I thanked him again for his suggestion. I heard the door click twice as it shut and I placed the flowers carefully on the side of the sink before undoing the buttons on my shirt.
A wet, sticky petal dropped heavily to the floor and without thinking I bent down to pick it up, not wishing to express my gratitude for the warm shower and the lift to the airport by littering the room even slightly. As I stood upright again with the wet, sticky petal on my forefinger, I felt the wet shirt being peeled slowly from my back. Confused, I turned instantly and shrieked as I found him actually salivating as his old fingers glanced off my skin. He pulled me against him—he is far stronger than he looks, let me assure you—and I felt something hard pressing against my inner thigh.
A lot of things became apparent to me in those few moments. The door clicked twice because he shut it and locked it from the inside. The key was no longer in the door. He was pressed against me as tightly as he could allow, and grunting heavily as he grinded against my flesh. I was trapped with no way out. He knew it better than I did.
His tight, papery lips pressed hard onto my mouth and I remember tasting stale smoke and decay on his breath; my first kiss. I entered that room completely inexperienced and left it a hollow shell of what I was. Never before had I experienced pain so invasive or persistent as what happened in that cold, tiled room, nor had I experienced anything as foul as that foreign liquid dribbling down my inner thighs. I needed that shower more than ever, yet now I was deeply afraid of entering a similar room again. My soaked clothes stubbornly stuck to my skin, chafing as I hurried away in tears. The flowers remained forgotten on the sink.
I longed to run as far as I could from that horrid house and the disgusting secret it witnessed, but I knew I could not. I promised her that no matter what happened I'd be there to greet her, and I loathed the notion of breaking a promise to her. My stomach churned at the thought of what had just happened; she would hate me unconditionally should she ever learn of it. Bile swamped my mouth as I recalled the old man kissing my forehead whilst gripping places nobody else had touched before, saying that it was to be kept strictly between us. It was not something I could speak of to anyone anyway; if I could utter the words of the vile act that had just occurred, I could not risk someone calling me a liar and ridiculing me over it. I lacked friends; the closest person to me was the perpetrator's daughter. She had a very understanding disposition, but I was painfully aware that she would not side with me over something that would tear her family and heart apart.
I made it to the back garden before I retched. Once I started to empty the foul acid lurking in my stomach, it seemed to refill itself immediately. The back of my throat was burnt raw with the liquid but still I heaved, trying to rid myself of the burdening shame. After what appeared to be an eternity I fell to my knees, landing in the thick mulch. The rain continued to beat down on my back relentlessly but I didn't register the cold water. I clutched at the soggy grass and mud stained my fingers and clothes, dirt lodging itself firmly under my nails but all I could feel was the burning tears pouring down my cheeks. It took me a while to realise that they were mine.
His gnarled fingers stroked a loose strand of hair away from my face and I twisted my body around to face him before I realised what I was doing. I felt sufficiently ashamed as it was without him pretending everything was normal. My back suddenly felt chilled and sticky, and my tears spilled freely without permission as it became obvious the mud was unreservedly staining my clothing. I spent far longer than usual fixing my appearance before I left my house in the hopes of meeting her approval, and now I'd be seeing her soaked and covered in filth of more than one kind. I was almost ready to wonder what else could possibly go wrong when the old man thrust the soggy, crumpled flowers into my hand. The flowers I'd picked to woo her with when I met her at the airport. The flowers that indicated she was worth more than a crush to me.
The old man guided me to the kitchen, muttering to himself as the mud from my unlaced shoes stained the delicate white floor tiles. I mentally wished that there was some kind of bleach commercially available that would eliminate the unsightly stains riddling my system. He placed a cup of steaming coffee in front of me and I jolted; I had no memory of sitting on the intricately designed chrome stool. I'd also never tasted coffee before that morning either. Coffee was a strange drink grown-ups drank. I was barely allowed to be called a teenager at that stage yet I sipped at the strong tasting substance. I numbly discovered I could never cling to the title of 'young' again. I was an adult now and could never be familiar with innocence for the remainder of my life.
I spluttered as I questioned myself whether I could have possibly heard the old man's words correctly. The whole situation was absurd. That man had just violated me, tried to comfort me in his twisted manner and offered me a hot drink to warm my bones before reverting back to the start of the cycle. You should start wearing skirts. You have delicious legs. I had never had even the slightest curiosity to wear such a thing and the idea certainly repulsed me now he expressed an interest in seeing me wear one. I mopped up the splashed liquid from the marble counter with the edge of my sleeve—I no longer cared about the state of my shirt, when I got the sufficient chance I was going to burn everything on my person. A scalding shower should see to the extensive damage that I desired to be applied to my skin.
If you won't, I'll make sure she does it.
I ceased my dabbing immediately. My heart thumped so quickly within my adolescent chest that I could not detect individual beats; he knew my weakness and called my bluff with it. I did not believe for a second that he had any intentions of harming his own child, but after what had happened earlier that afternoon I was not willing to take the gamble. She was carefree and innocent. I was tainted and disgusting. I could not allow the same filth-ridden fate to befall her if it was in my power to prevent it. I laughed maniacally as panic struck through my system—I was willing to wear a skirt so a lecherous old man could enjoy my body when he did not have the chance to violate it. The whole notion was so repulsive I could not control the laughter as it was just so absurd. I'd woken up that day thinking my greatest challenge would be dealing with the aftermath of presenting her with the flowers.
Rape.
My heart and laughter stopped simultaneously as soon as that word entered my thoughts and I realised the exact gravity of the situation. He actually raped me. I heard a low, eerie shriek but was too mesmerised by my shaking hands to realise it came from my own throat. I would be certain that it was my mind playing tricks on me and such a sordid act could never occur, but the intense pain located within my underwear confirmed it to be fact. That foreign liquid dribbling down my legs also served as a stalwart testimony to the deed.
When I got home later that day, I wrote the entirety of the day's actions on a tattered page ripped from an old school book with all intent of burning it the second it was finished, as if the depraved secret would vanish as the paper ignited. Instead, I became mesmerised by the scrawled ink and read it as though it were a mere piece of fiction rather than the documentation of the most horrific moments of my short life. I had never kept any kind of journal before but I bought one the very next day and wrote religiously every night before I slept.
It was half-price as it was the middle of summer and the demand for diaries commencing earlier that year were non-existent. I smiled wryly to myself as I realised I would be putting something into a cheap meaningless object, which is how I saw the ordeal. I never cared much for my appearance aside from how I wished for her to perceive me, but now I wished for my skin to decay at the same pace that my insides were decomposing. I was torn between hoping nobody would ever find out the shameful secret I harboured and the intense longing I felt for someone to find the journal and read every entrant so I could ease the weight in my soul.
To be continued.