She called me this morning, apologizing and all. I didn’t reply her, neither did I tell her it wasn’t her fault. I allowed her come to any conclusion she wanted. She had only meant to touch my cheek prolly as a sign of affection, still under the effect of the wonderful date we just had. Only a touch and I had freaked out. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and my heartbeat increased. I muttered an excuse and told her to leave. And as I shut the door in her face, I broke into tears.
And I really like her, but I’m such a mess. Would she still want me after I tell her?
The first time he came to knock on my door, it was locked. And during breakfast the next day, he warned me never to lock my door again, that he would not tolerate people doing bad things behind closed doors in his house. My mom worked overnight at the hospital, and so was not back yet to have breakfast with us. And the next night he came to my room, with his bad breath and big hairy hands, fondling whatever was inside my nightgown. Then he would bring out what was inside his pants and force me to touch and kiss it.
But as years went by, he stopped the painful fondling and squeezing. Rather , we would part my legs and shove his thing inside me. Soon I stopped struggling or even shouting, I was of no use. Instead I’ll lie down and cry as he panted like a heifer on top of me. My mother never noticed, she was probably always too tired or too busy to notice the sadness I wore like a veil. While she worked her ass off to provide for the family, he stayed at home to read newspapers, eat, sleep, and come to torture me at night.
When I entered the university at age 16, I stopped going home for holiday. And no amount of threats, or pleas from my mother would make me budge. She soon gave up.
And for years now, I’ve lived with this fear. This new me hates body contact or hugs, and stays away from public places. And when I think about sex, it is always the unhealthy image of my step father galloping on top of my twelve year old self.