I used my 'gift' on my 7th birthday. I knew it was my birthday for it was the only day my parents would look at me for more then a brief moment. They weren't happy looks, more of regret and scorn. It was safe to say, that there was no cake, no presents, no party waiting for me on this day. But still they would acknowledge that I was there. That night, father was diffrent. He never used to talk when he would stare at me at night. "Baby girl, you know you grow more beautiful every day." I clenched tighter into a ball at the sound of his voice. He sat on my bed and started stroking my arms from beneath the covers. I didn't move. He sniffed my hair, burying his face as deep as he could go. "You know your father loves you, right?". I started to cringe, "I love you so so much, that I can't hold it in any more." My heart started to pound faster as he talked. "Don't you love your father? Don't you want him to feel better? Don't you want to ease his pain, his needs?" Then I heard the bed shift, peaking out of the covers, I saw his body looming over mine. I stared at his face, time had slowed down. His eyes were wide, his smile was streached across his face. His breath was heavy and rancid. His tongue rolled out and persumed to lick the left side of my face. "Ughh, how I wanted to taste you, baby girl." I tried fighting back, but he was larger then me, stronger then me. I felt pain and fear,but mostly pain. My eyes widen as he placed my hand over my mouth, to stop my screaming. This pain was diffrent from mother's. For hers, it always left me with her feelings of hate. But this, it was filled with his lust. I started to gag, but having his hand over my mouth, had only left me choking in my own vomit. Not wanting me to sufficate, he turned me over with my head sticking out on the edge of the bed. Having freed my mouth I could have cried out, I didn't.
Instead I used ...my 'gift'. I called out for mother, not yelling for help, but to say that father was leaving. I knew how much she hated the thought of him leaving. To have anyone leave without her permission. Knew she would come out of her room if I said this, instead of calling for help. She came rushing in, time started to speed up. She pulled father off of me and started screaming, I ran into my closet, ignoring the pain that coursed through the bottom half of my body, and hid. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! Am I not good enough for you that you had to go fuck some brat!?" My life took a downhill dive after my father had whispered "yes". Hiding in my closet, blood dripping down my legs, I found a new 'gift'. Determination. I was determined not to give in.
As days went by, mother grew tired of beating me the same way. She didn't wish to kill me, for I kept her husband near. But she also hated that it was me he looked for at night. She then decided to get... creative with her beatings. One day she stripped me naked and dragged me into the bath, filled with cleaning detergent. I chocked in my scream as it started to burn my skin. Mother then pushed my head into the liquid. It started to burn, mother pulled my hair back so I could hear her words. "Be a good girl and don't you dare look or speak to me." Sometimes I wonder if I rather have her abuse me then for when she did nothing at all. For she would just stand at my bedroom door way and watch. She would watch as my father raped me. Begging for her to save me, would have been useless. In order to keep her husband from looking at other women and leaving her, she ignored the times he would come in my room at night. No one would save me, no one would come for me. No one would listen to what I say. For I was alone.
One night, father had tried to convince me to 'play' along, by offering me food. I had not eaten for a while, and seeing my weaken state, he had tried to take advantage of it. No good would come from accepting this. He would seize this as a chance to fuel his unhealthy obsession. It angered him, when I refused. In a fit of rage he started choking me. I tried clawing away at his hands, but I still was too weak. Before I could pass out, he stopped. Gathered my body in his arms, and started stroking my hair. Goosebumps littered my arms as he held me. My hair got oiler as he ran his fingers through it. His large sweaty meaty hands. I despised those hands, those hands that would run through out my body.
The next day I found a pair of scissors. When father visited my room, he saw that I had cut off my hair. The hair he had enjoyed so much, the hair he would run his fingers through every night after his 'love making'. He slapped me for what I had done, saying that it made me look more like a boy. He didn't touch me that night. He hid all the scissors and knives after that. I didn't care, for I was able to sleep for once. But only for that night. He didn't mind my short hair at all after that night. He said that it would grow, and I would be his baby girl once more.
But even so, I did not hate them, they were my parents. Instead of hate, I felt pity towards them. To everyone around me, for they would always decided to look away. To pretend that nothing bad was happening. Most humans were like this. I pitied them all.