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How to Get a Daddy to Sleep

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She sighed: she was used to this. She often brought me with her; I often got angry. “You know I’d never leave you there. With him.” Eventually my parents separated, meaning I spent two nights a week at my father's house. Those nights, I stayed in his bed with him, all night long. Somehow, the lie he'd told my mother to explain why I was often in their bed when she came home from work -- that I was too scared to sleep alone -- became truth. I don't know if I was truly scared or if I simply came to believe I was, but I rarely spent a night in bed by myself until I was 13 years old.

Short Story Writing | Writers | Read Online | Writing Contests | Writing Software | Writing Journals | Writing A Book | Writing A Novel The abuse was the center of my universe. I created an imaginary friend, Charlotte, who was the only one I confided in. I had conversations with Charlotte in my head all the time about the ways my father touched me. We would devise elaborate strategies, some plotting to get rid of my dad so he'd stop doing it and others scheming to get rid of his girlfriend so he would never stop thinking I was special. His sex pressed against mine, wet and urging, begging for entrance. We were both completely naked, on the bed he once shared with his first love. On the bed he now shared with his first – his only – daughter.orphan_account Fandoms: Father/Daughter - Fandom, Incest - Fandom, Family Sex - Fandom, Young Love - Fandom, Older Man/Younger Girl - Fandom I was fine. I didn’t hurt. But my mother’s blood ebbed and flowed out of her, like water spilling from a broken dam.

I heard you at the funeral.” My hands were fists. The utensils dug into my palm, cold and hard and unrelenting. “I heard you say how much you loved how Mom was just so messy, Dad. I heard you, and you said you loved that about her. Well then how come when she was alive you’d yell at her for it, huh? You’d get into fights all the time because she just wouldn’t clean up her crap. Can you tell me why that is, Dad? Were you just faking for the people at the funeral? Were you afraid that Grandpa and Grandma would be horrified that you’d dare to insult their daughter at her own funeral? You were just lying, then, Dad. You were lying to that whole bunch of people.” My arms were moving. They wrapped themselves across my chest. I felt my cold hands digging into my shoulders. I had no control over my limbs. It felt like my body knew I needed comfort, and was compensating for its absence.

I thought it meant that I was special. I didn't know it would turn sex into an act of shame.

It was sudden when he hugged me. I was surprised, but I relished in his warmth. On cold nights when we were out and the winds decided to be cruel, my father would envelop me in his arms. He never failed to comfort my freezing skin. It was cold at the funeral. The leaves dropped like dead flies. A few landed on her coffin. It suddenly looked like Halloween: orange leaves laid against a dark wooden box. My father stood silent beside me. His eyes were red-rimmed, yet I had never seen him cry. He had been in this state of almost-crying for a week now. Good for him; I hadn’t shed a tear, and my eyes were nowhere near red. No, not even pink. Not nothing. Never nothing. What would you want me to have said?” My voice was louder. It was growing, feeding off of what it found inside me. Whatever it could grasp. “It only makes sense. It only –” I called no one. My father was still lost to his anger. The busy signal on the phone was frightening and loud. It gave me a headache – splitting and painful, and so I hid. I hid in slumber, in a tiny corner of the room. I curled on the couch, I shut my eyes. Like my mother, I looked like I had fallen asleep. But I was alive. I was awake to hear them pronounce the time of death. You are… so stubborn. So insensitive.” From my father, it came out an angry shout. “I ask you this one thing –”

I was annoyed. That’s all I was, but I was shaking. I looked like I was furious. But I only felt a shallow annoyance. I burst, without warning: “How come something negative about someone only becomes endearing after their dead?” A ringing started in my ears, punctured by the sharp sound the forks and spoons made on our plates. Each sound seemed magnified. My ears felt like they were being continuously stabbed. Some of the hardest times in life never completely end, and this was just the beginning of a long process -- unhealthy, complicated and, of course, unsuccessful by definition -- of using men to give me what Daddy had given me when I was so young and impressionable. Around the same time, I initiated a phone sex relationship with Mr. Bernard, the neighborhood "perv." He lived alone; he was normal looking, maybe 60 years old. I don't know how we kids knew he was a "perv" -- it was just common knowledge, information passed along, as many things were, by the older, wiser sisters of my peers. My friend Kathy's parents used to tell us, "Oh, leave him alone, he's just an old alcoholic man." But the wisdom of the sisters reigned supreme. At slumber parties, we would crank call him and scream "You're a perv!" into the phone. "We know what you do to little girls," we'd taunt, and then hang up.I felt tears in my eyes as he pulled away. I didn’t know why I was crying so soon after I had stopped. I tried my best to conceal it. I sniffed as quietly as I could. I pressed my face into the pillow. TLDR: I dont know how to do summaries lol. Language: English Words: 3,804 Chapters: 4/4 Kudos: 136 Bookmarks: 26 Hits: 22,084 I called my father’s phone and it was busy. He had turned it off. He always did. He never liked to be disturbed after the yelling. He would end up shouting at the person on the other end. He would turn it on later, after his cheeks were less flushed, his skin not buzzing with rage. It would take a long time, and my mother didn’t have that long. It was a habit I kept for a long time after those days -- I'd make myself come but not in the presence of others. It was like a vestige of Daddy; for a long, long time, only Daddy would make me come. Chris gave me a lot: He replaced my father as the man who kept me front and center in his gaze, something I so desperately needed. But here's the catch, something I didn't think about until recently. How did the girls know? How had this rumor managed to get passed down? Who else played with Mr. Bernard?

I gripped my umbrella tightly, studying my dark gloves, shimmering in places where the pale sunlight hit them. I had no other gloves. The ones I was wearing were for dinner parties. They were itchy and I couldn’t wait to take them off. I stood on my bare feet in the middle of my room. I took my gloves off and threw them in some dark corner in my closet. I scratched furiously up and down my arms, irritated that my father had forced me to wear gloves even if it wasn’t too cold out. He’d insisted. He’d told me my mother had loved it when I wore those gloves. She’d bought them for me from Spain. She had loved Spain. That was another thing I knew about her. I was desperate, and needy. I rarely saw my dad, and when I did he was cold and dispassionate. He didn't treat me the same way, and I wasn't his No. 1 girl. I no longer held his attention, and I was no longer his obsession. I felt that I'd lost his love. My mom and I moved when I turned 13, into a new house where my father had never touched me and would never have the chance. I began sleeping in my own bed immediately, and I gave up my relationship with Mr. Bernard shortly thereafter.She took my hand in both of hers, pressing it to her forehead. She breathed slowly, and then more slowly. My father was in his room. The light was on – he was awake. I crept inside and saw him staring. Under the sheets, with his big belly and thin legs, he stared at the ceiling. My whole life, I have been haunted by an intersection between shame and pleasure. As a young child, I was hurt again and again and led to believe that it was my fault, and that if only I weren't bad, my dad wouldn't do those things to me. But at the same time, I thought I was special because it was happening. I'd tell myself, "Look how much my daddy loves me," but still I knew it was bad and that I should be ashamed. And sometimes I liked the way it felt, but a lot of times I was scared. And I knew that if I told anyone, he would hurt me. Other times, the routine was different. He would work up to things slowly. We'd be wrestling, rough-housing playfully, maybe in the living room, and he would casually, repeatedly touch my vagina through my clothes. Later in bed he would hold me close and we'd laugh. He'd ask, "Who's my No. 1 girl?" And he would touch me under my nightgown, and I would like it. My mother’s arms were sprawled on the bed as if broken. Her head was tilted to one side. Her eyes were shut. She was dying. She looked like she had just fallen asleep.

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