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9 years ago...
The hitch in my throat was easy to swallow tonight. It was becoming easier. I suppose that's a 'pro' of 3 years worth of constant assault from your stepdad. Predictability.
My mom couldn't please him like he'd wanted when she became bedridden, so he decided to use me instead—stealing my virginity, stealing my innocence, stealing what was left of my childhood. I had to become a woman at 17.
I was due to leave for college soon like every other teen my age, but I couldn't. I had to take care of my mom. Lord knows the excuse of a man she chose to marry when my dad left wasn't going to do it. The only thing he was good for was spending her disability checks on drugs and alcohol every weekend, then coming home to use me as his personal cum bucket when he was done at the bar. Rinse and repeat.
He would do this until my mom died and I would kill him.
It was Saturday at 2:28 am. His preferred bar was 7 minutes away and last-call for alcohol was at 2:20 am. The time on my clock had told me that he had already ordered his last 2 shots of Jameson and was getting in the car to drive home. He would be here at 2:36am, give or take. That gave me 8 minutes to mentally prepare myself.
I snaked through the dim hallway and downstairs to the other side of the house where my mom's room was. I peeked in and looked at her oxygen machine to make sure she was still breathing. After that confirmation, I closed her door and started back to my room.
I turned on the sunset-yellow LED lights that hung intricately on my walls. Yellow was the color that calmed me down the most and I found it easier to look at when he was drunkenly inside of me.
I stripped my clothes off. I didn't like to give him a reason to be in my room any longer than needed, so I did everything I knew he would ask before he got here. My hair was down, I had on his favorite lilac earrings and spritzed my body with 2 pumps of Champagne Toast.
I kicked my fallen clothes under the bed and climbed in. Now was the waiting game.
The clock read 2:34am and a wave of anxiety washed over me. Yes, I had done everything I knew he would ask for, but what I couldn't predict is how aggressive he would be. Would I wake up tomorrow with marsh-colored bruises on my thighs or would I be able to use my foundation like a normal teenager?
His work boots thumped under me. I could hear him falling against the wall trying to keep himself upright. Then his boots unsteadily slammed up the stairs, my heartbeat nearly matching the inconsistent patter of his trot.
Now I could hear his ragged breath outside my door. "Here goes nothing," I thought to myself.
He pushed my door opened and tracked mud on my beige carpet on the way to my bed. Without a word, he tore my covers off, exposing my bare skin to the cool room air.
He fumbled with his belt, courtesy of however much alcohol he consumed tonight, and became increasingly agitated at his inability to free the clasps.
"Undo this shit!" He demanded. He was only 3 feet away from me, but his breath hit me like a semi-truck. There was enough liquor on his tongue to make me feel drunk.
