I hate birthdays I thought sullenly. Daddy's gonna be waiting for me at home. I was scared. I walked home sluggishly, I knew what was waiting for me at home and I didn't want to face it, but I didn't want to face Daddy's wrath if I was late either. With that I quickened my pace.
I heard the baseball game blaring on the television as my hand reached for the doorknob. I paused for one second and he ripped open the door.
"You're late Angela," I looked down at my feet. I could already smell the alcohol on his breath. Daddy stuck his head out the door, he looked both ways like a four year old crossing the street for the very first time, but this wasn't Daddy's first time. The alcohol was making him a little more paranoid than usual.
After being sure no one was watching he grabbed a handful of my thin, straggly hair. He ripped me into the house. I kept my composure, but I was still scared. I hit the floor hard and looked over. Sure enough, the living room was littered with beer bottles and his favorite whiskey jugs.
I looked into his eyes, looking for the littlest amount of remorse and found nothing, absolutely nothing. I felt my eyes begin to water I wish I was never born, never.
He knelt down beside me, "I'm sorry baby. I don't know what I was thinking." He pulled me into a hug and stroked my long hair. What was he doing? He didn't love me. He never even liked me.
"Here, let's go doctor up yours bruises. Look at that eye!" His hand caressed my cheek. I didn't know what to do. I rarely ever saw compassion, and never from him.
He scooped me up in his arms and rocked me gently back and forth. "Hush, little baby don't say a word," He put one finger to my lips, "Ma-,"
His nails dug into my legs. We never talked about Mama, it was forbidden. He sighed and kept going. He walked into his room and I felt my eyes get wide. He smiled at me. I hated that smile. What was going on? I didn't understand and I wouldn't understand what happened on my seventh birthday for years to come.
He sat me down on the bed and knelt beside me. His fingers traced bruises and scrapes and cuts. All things he'd done to me. He caused everything horrible in my life. His fingers made their way a little further up my leg… to far for comfort. I didn't have many bruises up there.
"Daddy…" I didn't like how this was going. His gruff hands made their way up my sides. He pulled my dress off over my head. I felt myself crying, I was so scared of him, completely and utterly terrified.