Menendez – Erika

An AU fic based on my other Menendez Brother fics but it is a stand-alone story. What if Erik Menendez wasn't Erik but a teenage girl called Erika?

Two raped boys…raped again by the system in court when they were forced to tell their world what their parents did to them and then given life in prison with no chance of parole. As if that wasn't punishment enough, they were cruelly separated for 22 years when all they had had was each other.

Now imagine they were little girls. At most they were young women when they killed their parents.

Or what if Lyle didn't have a brother but a younger sister called Erika instead?

Please leave a review if you want to even if it is to tell me how to improve or what you would like to see happen. x

Chapter 1 Basket Case

Another pointless meeting with the new school counsellor.

She goes through my record.

'History of several suicide attempts and depression. Anxiety. You have some elements of the binge-purge subtype of anorexia nervosa but mostly you starve yourself. You also self-harm by cutting.'

Feeling self-conscious and wishing the ground would swallow me whole, I pull the sleeves of my cashmere sweater over my thin wrists to hide the faded scars there and I smile up at her like the world's greatest actress.

She asks me what medication I'm on, how I'm doing at school, do I have any friends?

I tell her – Xanax for the panic attacks and insomnia and an anti-depressant as well as an anti-emetic for my frequent nausea which pre-dates my eating disorder. But maybe was the trigger for it.

Nobody knows.

'Are you still doing any of the self-destructive behaviors?'

'No, the medicine and therapy seem to be really working and I don't need them anymore.' I beam back at her as I lie, thinking about the penknife I hide under the floorboard and the cuts all over my thighs and arms from a few nights ago.

The cow-eyed dumpy woman seems to buy it or at least can't be bothered to challenge my assertion.

She asks me more required questions about my friends and school life but never what my home life is like.

Or the source of my problems with nausea and food.

Or why I hurt myself.

Probably because my life is perfect in her eyes, going to this perfect exclusive private Beverly Hills educational institution which is a feeder school for Ivy League colleges on the East Coast. No doubt, she believes being my father's daughter and the wealth and privilege it brought are mutually exclusive to having these mental health issues caused by being abused at home.

That night after he slips into my room and he's finishes inside me with a loud cry, I turn away in revulsion.

'Why do you do that, little Erika?' He kissed me on the cheek, leaving a long strand of his disgusting saliva. He then growls something incomprehensible in his guttural, ugly Cuban Spanish.

It sounds like dirty names aimed at me.

Probably is.

I hate Spanish.

Then he switches without warning. 'Turn and look at me, you little slut! I am your FATHER!' He screams in my face.

His free and proud admission after what he was just doing to me of this fact breaks me and I start to cry.

He grins and licks my tears away with his tongue as I lay there sobbing.

I want to die.

But inside, I know he hasn't broken me completely because inside I'm screaming at him, 'Fuck you, fuck you, hope you die, you rapist pig, paedophile, I'm gonna tell the whole world what you did to us …'

I have visions not just slipping cinnamon into his coffee to disguise his disgusting taste, but some kind of undetectable poison in it or in his food so he dies; or even more satisfying, drugging him, tying him up then cutting off his dick off with a penknife or his precious Rambo blade. Then, yanking up the blade and disembowelling him, twisting it brutally as I do to cause him just one tiny bit of the pain he's caused us over the years and then slide it gently into his black, evil perverted heart.

If he even has one.

He makes me doubt that he has one almost daily.

I first got pregnant with my father's baby at 13. Bastard swore me to secrecy and forced me to get an abortion. Told the nurse in the clinic a cock and bull story about some boy at school, making me out to be some kind of slut. Afterwards, he made a large 'donation' and forced them to sign an NDA.

Truth is, I'm far too traumatized to even let a boy touch me with one special exception but I'll get into that later.

Or I don't mind my older brother Lyle. He's OK. When my smart, popular and handsome brother holds me on my bed on top of the covers sometimes, I feel safe because I know that he won't let dad get to me.

Twice I fell pregnant again when I was 14 and then last year after I turned 15. Jose slapped my face hard and accused me of forgetting to take the pills he makes me take which wasn't true. I always take them because who could stomach the thought of having a child with that monster who was supposed to their father? Especially at my age?

After the last pregnancy, my father forces me to take 2 different contraceptive pills, God knows where he got them or which back street doctor he bribed or threatened to sell them to him. When I tell him that they make my nausea worse and sometimes make me bleed between my periods (it feels so intimate and disgusting to have to say this to your own father), he makes a dismissive gesture and forces me to take them anyway.

I wonder if it will mess up my fertility later on if I ever want to have children but I already know I never will. Not after the childhood I've experienced – I never want to pass on my father's sickness onto innocent children.

Or my own.

Getting drunk with older boys at frat parties and sleeping around became the other excuses for my condition at the other clinics - dad made sure we went to ones 100 miles beyond the city limits after the first time. My father uses the same modus operandi and throws his wealth and power around – bribes, threats and NDAs. The great Jose wouldn't want his pregnant teenage daughter to shame him and ruin the perfect Menendez family image and thus his chances in the Senate. His lofty ambitions probably even extend to the White House, no doubt – I know he dreams of being the first Hispanic President of the USA.

That's what my brother Lyle told me and he wants him by his side during his Presidential campaign.

I suppress the urge to run to the lavatory and offload my stomach's contents. Not that it was much.

…

Dad first fully rapes me when I'm 12 and a half. Almost as soon as he's aware I'm menstruating.

He's made sure that he will find out from Mother and the maid under the guise of being concerned for my safety around males - adult men and especially the boys at school.

My safety? What a joke!

When I was 10, he tried to penetrate me but I screamed in so much pain that he was forced to stop. He wasn't even angry about it. He was 'nice' and understanding back then when we were alone in my room at least. That time, he just held me and stroked my hair. He told me that he loved me and he didn't want to hurt me and he'd wait until I became a 'woman'.

I didn't really understand what he meant by that until sex education classes in school where they talked about menstruation.

The videos of sex and childbirth which looked like torture terrified me and I prayed that I never got my period so that I wouldn't have to have sex with my father.

When I got it, in shock I told no one and tried to hide my blood-stained underwear.

But I was found out anyway.

My mother announced the arrival of my period at the dinner table.

I flushed crimson and looked down at my plate of roast chicken, potatoes and salad that I suddenly wanted to eat even less than usual.

My 15-year-old brother also got red in the face but tried to be delicate about it. 'Well, it happened to Ralph's sister just last month, it's not really a big deal.'

My mother said to me meaningfully, 'Well, now that means you're a woman.'

And I swear, did she look over at my dad when she said this?

Anyway, my father pounced on her words of course with glee in his eyes and stared pointedly at me. Letting his gaze surreptitiously wander over my non-existent chest except for some budding breasts. He did it so quickly that no-one else noticed.

Or at least they pretended that they hadn't.

'Are you in a lot of pain?' Lyle asked me sweetly across the table.

'No, I'm fine, thanks.'

'It's just that I heard Tylenol is good for it if you are. And so are hot compresses.'

'Thanks.' I smiled up at him in gratitude for trying to make all of this normal.

During this exchange, my father was looking at me in a knowing way like he has X-ray vision that can see straight under my clothes.

I shivered and tried to pull my sweater over my small bosom, cursing myself for not wearing looser clothing around him. Never skirts or dresses that gave him easy access…or feminine tops that might feed his insatiable lust for me.

A couple of nights later, he touched me all over while I froze then he put Vaseline on the both of us.

'It'll be OK.' He kissed my forehead like a father should. 'It always hurts the first time but I'll be gentle.'

Terrified, when I felt him nudging my entrance with the tip of his penis, I suddenly found my voice and shouted and screamed, 'No!' and 'Please stop, Daddy, you're hurting me!'

He rolled away immediately onto his back and lay beside me for a while.

I was hardly breathing in fear before he coldly announced, 'If you yell and scream again, I'll just go ahead and do it. All at once.' Then he got up and left.

The next time, I couldn't hold back my fear and did exactly that and he raped me brutally, just like in his threat. I told him 'No' and 'Stop!' but he just kept going without caring that I was in pain. Afterwards, my intimate places stung and throbbed as I bled all over my bed.

He left me without a word of comfort as I lay there sobbing. I kept on expecting someone to hear me and come in like my mother but nobody did. Even she usually came in to give me medicine when I was sick.

Lyle had left the night before, probably why the bastard had chosen this night of all nights. I never wanted my brother there so badly in my life even though I knew I would die of shame if he found me in this state and knew who had put me in it.

He would kill Dad!

Part of me wanted to tell him and for him to do it.

But Mom knew what had happened because it was her and not the maid who came and changed my bloody sheets the next morning even though they were put on fresh not more than 5 days ago.

'Mom…' I started. 'Dad…Last night, he…he…' I sobbed.

'I don't want to hear it.' She replied coldly.

'But…'

'You dad loves you and he has to punish you when you're bad.'

'But I didn't do anything!'

She turned around slowly like a mindless automaton to look at me with disdain. Her eyes were icy and full of a cold, hard rage I'd never seen before.

I shrunk back in shock.

'Here, take these and this is to put between your legs. The pain will go away, maybe in a couple of days.' She practically threw the painkillers and the ice-pack at me. 'I'll bring you some more Tylenol and something to eat later.'

'But Mom! He raped me!'

She ignored me. Couldn't seem to stand to look at me either.

'I'll throw these away. No use to anyone anymore.' Her mouth twisted in a sneer of disgust as she gathered the ruined sheets and took them with her. I noticed how she made sure none of the red stains were visible to anyone who passed her on the landing or stair to the utility room.

And the pain and the bleeding didn't stop in a couple of days like she said, they lasted for over a week.