Rivaziad
07-19-2013, 08:25 PM
This story touches sensible topics like child abuse, violence, misery and death. However, it does not contain x-rated text or anything too graphic in terms of violence, so I'm hoping it fits into the boundaries of this forum.
This story is written in the form of a diary. Each entry represents one or more days, or even just a fragment of a day. This is not supposed to resemble the main character's actual diary but should be more seen like a recaption of her life from her own perspective, hence the increased level of detail and direct speech.
The following is the first entry of several, but should work well by itself.
I let him do it one last time. He came up to three times a week and did those things to me. You know: He touched me, kissed me. Sick things fathers aren't supposed to do to their daughters.
I haven't told anyone about it. My mother died in a train accident when I was nine, and I didn't really talk to anyone in school ever since we moved here. I wanted to leave all this behind, group up with some of my old friends maybe, build a nice treehouse for us to live in happily... but I knew those were mere childish wishes.
When I told my father I didn't like it, he just laughed and said I will, but it will take some time for me to get used to it. That time never came.
He always acted like everything's fine, everything's normal – nothing was normal though. I hated him for doing this to me. Hated my mother for not being there to help me. Hated myself for not being able to stand up against him.
I did start resisting, told him to stop, but words didn't help. One way or another, he got what he wanted. When I pushed him away, he hit me - again and again, until I begged him to stop.
I thought he was going to kill me. I cried my eyes out, apologized, screamed for my mother, screamed for anyone at all, but it was in vain, he continued, eventually ripping my clothes off by force.
I closed my eyes and let it happen, endured it as much as I could. It felt like hours passed, and I can't remember whether I lost consciousness or simply fell asleep after it was over. The only thing I clearly remember from that day is the promise I made to myself while I was lying there:
I would kill this man. He is not my father. He has never been my father.
I would steal his life, just like he stole mine for all those years.
All I had to do is wait. I took one of the big knives from the kitchen and hid it under my pillow. I knew he would come again. He never had enough. Two days later, it happened.
One last time I'd let him touch me everywhere, kiss me everywhere.
Then, when he was undressing, I took the knife from under the pillow. There was no way back anymore. I stood up.
He looked at me with cold eyes.
"Lay back down", he said.
I shook my head. The expression in his eyes went from coldness to anger. He hit me, hard enough for me to stumble back. I looked up to him with a mix of contempt and fear.
"Lay back down", he repeated.
My cheek hurt, but I shook my head once more. He tried to hit me again, but this time I managed to block his hand off with my arm.
I could see how he got angrier every second I disobeyed him. His face was burning with rage.
Suddenly, he lunged forward and grabbed my throat.
I was shocked and started to panic. He was completely out of his mind, I was sure he'd kill me this time.
I can't wait any longer. I have to do it. I have to end it.
In a fast motion, I raised the knife. Even though I could barely breathe, my throat hurt and I was scared like hell, I was going to pay him back – for everything he has ever done to me.
From the blood that spilled onto my arm, I could tell I got a lucky hit. He let go of my throat and stumbled back, looking at me in pure shock while pressing his hands onto his heavily bleeding neck.
I wanted to wipe away the tears from my face, but I just made things worse by getting blood on my face too. It was still warm – a terrible feeling that almost made me throw up on the spot. I must've looked like a monster.
But it wasn't over yet. I took a step forward.
He knew what was going to happen and stretched out his hand, trying to keep me back. This time he was the one who had to beg for his life.
His legs got weak and he fell on his knees. I was flustered, scared, but seeing him like that still almost made me smile, as I felt the biggest relief I've ever had in my life. Finally, I was the one in control. I was the one who had the power over myself, I was able to decide by myself and do what I wanted to do.
I tightened my grip of the knife and thrusted it into his stomach.
He barely reacted to it. Maybe he was about to lose consciousness already. The sharp blade continously entered his skin. I didn't realize what was going on around me anymore.
All the pain I had stoked up inside of me, all the fear and pity for myself – released at this very moment.
He stopped looking at me after some time - stopped moving - stopped breathing. He was dead, but blinded by my emotions, I continued nevertheless, until I had no power left.
Eventually, I let go of the knife. I was tired and exhausted. My hands and my clothes were drenched in blood by now, my face wet from all the tears. I looked at his dead face and felt really sick all of a sudden.
I was about to throw up. I tried to crawl away, but I could barely move, so it ended up on the floor.
I really didn't care anymore. I closed my eyes and fell asleep on top of him. For a moment there, it sure looked like we were a real family – but that was just an illusion, another one of those childish dreams I had.
This story is written in the form of a diary. Each entry represents one or more days, or even just a fragment of a day. This is not supposed to resemble the main character's actual diary but should be more seen like a recaption of her life from her own perspective, hence the increased level of detail and direct speech.
The following is the first entry of several, but should work well by itself.
I let him do it one last time. He came up to three times a week and did those things to me. You know: He touched me, kissed me. Sick things fathers aren't supposed to do to their daughters.
I haven't told anyone about it. My mother died in a train accident when I was nine, and I didn't really talk to anyone in school ever since we moved here. I wanted to leave all this behind, group up with some of my old friends maybe, build a nice treehouse for us to live in happily... but I knew those were mere childish wishes.
When I told my father I didn't like it, he just laughed and said I will, but it will take some time for me to get used to it. That time never came.
He always acted like everything's fine, everything's normal – nothing was normal though. I hated him for doing this to me. Hated my mother for not being there to help me. Hated myself for not being able to stand up against him.
I did start resisting, told him to stop, but words didn't help. One way or another, he got what he wanted. When I pushed him away, he hit me - again and again, until I begged him to stop.
I thought he was going to kill me. I cried my eyes out, apologized, screamed for my mother, screamed for anyone at all, but it was in vain, he continued, eventually ripping my clothes off by force.
I closed my eyes and let it happen, endured it as much as I could. It felt like hours passed, and I can't remember whether I lost consciousness or simply fell asleep after it was over. The only thing I clearly remember from that day is the promise I made to myself while I was lying there:
I would kill this man. He is not my father. He has never been my father.
I would steal his life, just like he stole mine for all those years.
All I had to do is wait. I took one of the big knives from the kitchen and hid it under my pillow. I knew he would come again. He never had enough. Two days later, it happened.
One last time I'd let him touch me everywhere, kiss me everywhere.
Then, when he was undressing, I took the knife from under the pillow. There was no way back anymore. I stood up.
He looked at me with cold eyes.
"Lay back down", he said.
I shook my head. The expression in his eyes went from coldness to anger. He hit me, hard enough for me to stumble back. I looked up to him with a mix of contempt and fear.
"Lay back down", he repeated.
My cheek hurt, but I shook my head once more. He tried to hit me again, but this time I managed to block his hand off with my arm.
I could see how he got angrier every second I disobeyed him. His face was burning with rage.
Suddenly, he lunged forward and grabbed my throat.
I was shocked and started to panic. He was completely out of his mind, I was sure he'd kill me this time.
I can't wait any longer. I have to do it. I have to end it.
In a fast motion, I raised the knife. Even though I could barely breathe, my throat hurt and I was scared like hell, I was going to pay him back – for everything he has ever done to me.
From the blood that spilled onto my arm, I could tell I got a lucky hit. He let go of my throat and stumbled back, looking at me in pure shock while pressing his hands onto his heavily bleeding neck.
I wanted to wipe away the tears from my face, but I just made things worse by getting blood on my face too. It was still warm – a terrible feeling that almost made me throw up on the spot. I must've looked like a monster.
But it wasn't over yet. I took a step forward.
He knew what was going to happen and stretched out his hand, trying to keep me back. This time he was the one who had to beg for his life.
His legs got weak and he fell on his knees. I was flustered, scared, but seeing him like that still almost made me smile, as I felt the biggest relief I've ever had in my life. Finally, I was the one in control. I was the one who had the power over myself, I was able to decide by myself and do what I wanted to do.
I tightened my grip of the knife and thrusted it into his stomach.
He barely reacted to it. Maybe he was about to lose consciousness already. The sharp blade continously entered his skin. I didn't realize what was going on around me anymore.
All the pain I had stoked up inside of me, all the fear and pity for myself – released at this very moment.
He stopped looking at me after some time - stopped moving - stopped breathing. He was dead, but blinded by my emotions, I continued nevertheless, until I had no power left.
Eventually, I let go of the knife. I was tired and exhausted. My hands and my clothes were drenched in blood by now, my face wet from all the tears. I looked at his dead face and felt really sick all of a sudden.
I was about to throw up. I tried to crawl away, but I could barely move, so it ended up on the floor.
I really didn't care anymore. I closed my eyes and fell asleep on top of him. For a moment there, it sure looked like we were a real family – but that was just an illusion, another one of those childish dreams I had.