Empty-Minded Girl

His want, his desire, wasn’t like that of most men. He didn’t approach her with fire in his eyes and saliva frothing at his mouth. He didn’t push and pull at her; his want didn’t turn violent as with most. Rather, he was calm and gentle, sweet.

She lay there, asleep, as pretty and pure as a nesting dove. She was upon her side, her face pressed to an over-stuffed pillow, her knees together and bent. One arm was turned up and beneath her resting head, the other lay upon the sheets; the milky white of her flesh would have very nearly matched those sheets had it not been for the glinting of her pink nail polish and slight discoloration at her wrists, possibly from a healing bruise. She wore a yellow t-shirt several sizes too big which was crumpled and pulled high in an attempt to remain cool during the warm night, exposing her stomach and hint of ribs; the blonde down upon her belly glinted in the early morning light bringing stark contrast to the brown hair that budded beneath her navel. That dark hair gave way to thicker even darker hair as it reached her pubis, the bulk of her fur hidden beneath tiny white briefs.

He looked at her from socked feet to resting head with a near disinterest. As to not wake her, he carefully sat upon the bed’s edge and watched her for any sign of waking. He never noticed her slit-open eyes. After removing his very shiny shoes, he tugged his pant-legs up a bit at the knees and crawled onto the bed. His big and warm hands moved over her thigh lightly and up to her bottom where one pressed more firmly, feeling her rump. His gaze seldom left her face; he watched her for any tell-tale sign that she would awake. Those big hands eased between her turned and pressed legs and gently opened them, turning her bottom half up. He sat upon his heels and watch her face, his hand as it touched her covered privates, his other hand as it clutched and squeezed his own beneath his slacks.

She remained still, watching through those slits. She watched his dull eyes. She watched his careful and exact motions.

After a slow unzip and unbutton, he pushed his pants down a bit along with his underpants and let his hard member out. He pulled her panties up and aside at the crotch, only took a brief glance down at his prize, and leaned forward and down on top of her. She let her eyes close completely and sank into blackness as he painfully tore into her.

He was closing the bedroom door when she finally gave a shuttered sigh of relief. As the lock clicked from the other side, she allowed tears to fall; she knew not to cry as she might be heard. But she did weep. The bedsheet had speckles of blood about it and her panties were ruined, they stuck to her with blood and mucus. Into the trash they would go. Stepping off of the bed, she landed in wet upon the carpet. He spent himself there, over the bed and away from her. With tears still falling, she crouched to the floor and ran her fingers over the small mess; she smelled her hands, the stench of his ejaculate. She sat there, lost within her pain, her blood, and his semen. The worry of what she would do about the bed and carpet troubled her.

I should have worn pants, she thought. I should have shaved it all off. To comply with the other girls and contain some youth; not appear mature. I made him do it.

She didn’t allow herself to cry for long. She knew she had to compose herself for when the day started and people would be around. Despite the speckles of blood, she made the bed to look as perfect as possible. An old towel from her bedroom hamper helped her to clean up herself and a tampon plus pad within clean underpants would both help any more potential bleeding as well as give a sense of security. Fully dressed, she stood beside the bed, the dull pain of her torn labia throbbing, and stared at the damp spot upon the carpet.

The culmination of the act. The end result of his want. The spill of passion and love.
The climax of a man’s desire.

The very seed which creates life rested beneath her feet.

Beneath my feet. Upon my hand. The very seed which gave me life.

–

I didn’t lose my virginity to him; that was given to a boy. I was still a kid, however, and still pure. He was still my Father as I was his daughter. It was the only time that ever happened. And it was the last time he ever intentionally physically touched me in any way. His own conscious took him away.

I hated him for that morning. I screamed at him years later, in my teens, and made certain he remembered what he had done to his little girl. He was driven into a sort of isolation, cut away from the family, by his guilt. I was driven into the underbelly of life; I let his rape take control of my mind and sought to bury it beneath drugs, alcohol, promiscuity, violence, SI (self-injury), and multiple suicide attempts. Instead of taking it out upon my father, I chose to instead take it out upon myself.

Why? Did I not watch him do it? Did I not allow it to happen?

I’ve been through years of therapy. The underlying cause of all my depression and violence is this event. And the truth is there. I really did allow it to happen. My father was a timid man. Brilliant from a decade of higher education and proud of his great career, he was still a fragile and flawed man. His moment of weakness came that morning. My mother and I both knew it was a matter of time before he would crack. He carried the weight of the world. In our few private sisterly talks (my mother, in fact, was the bigger monster in my life), she believed he would commit suicide when things became “too much” for him. As it turned out, he chose to rape his only child.

Am I making excuses for him? Yes. I never forgave him but I did acknowledge that he was a flawed human. He made his mistake and suffered with the consequences within his own mind for decades. I never needed to do a violent thing to him; I already was without effort.

He put a permanent piece of darkness in my soul for which I can never forgive. But he was a good, albeit flawed, man. And I loved him. Through my hatred, I loved him.

My father was the sick bastard who raped me, but I was the twelve year old child who wrapped her legs around him as he did it. What’s that make me?