A teenage girl deals with the stress of an abusive loved one
|“Are you awake, honey?” an anxious male voice asked in the darkness.
I was, but I was too frightened to open my mouth to answer. I opened my eyes just ever so slightly, enough that I could only make out his lengthy silhouette in the shadows without him noticing my gaze. I knew he was standing there looking at my bed, at me, obviously craving something that he’s craved many times before. That’s the only reason he came to my room at night, to satisfy whatever sick thoughts he had playing devil’s advocate in his twisted brain. And I just let it happen.
He sat down at the edge of my bed and brushed a cold hand over my forehead, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I wanted so badly to move, to run, to scream, to do anything at all. But I could only lie still, paralyzed, wishing for him to go away and bother anyone else but me.
I know it’s cold of me to hope he would choose another victim, but frankly I was just tired of pretending like he wasn’t molesting me. I was over it, over acting as if everything was okay. Over pretending like I had been asleep each night that he’s appeared at my bed. In all honesty, I think he’d be quite shocked to know that I’ve been awake many of the times he’s asked. Daddy must have thought I would never wake up while he was there, and boy was he wrong.