Page 23 of Cillian

“You're right. I don't know what it's like being a woman. But it still doesn't mean that whatever's happened to you is your fault, gender aside.” Her light sniffles echoed as she turned around in her seat to face me.

“Growing up, especially when I started growing hips and needing bras, there wasn't a boy who could look in my direction without my parents accusing me of being promiscuous. My dad’s solution was to keep me invested in school. Mainly to keep me away from the boys in my neighborhood. I’ve always gone to all girl’s schools because of it. But one day, a boy from our church slipped a letter in my Bible telling me how much he liked me and wanted to go steady.

Unfortunately, my dad found it and decided he would start having my body…looked at,” she hesitated, ashamed. “Because no daughter of his was going to have no reputation of being fast. Modesty checks he called them. They started when I was twelve.” What she admitted next made me sick to my stomach. No way would I ever put a child through that. No way would I force a child to do what was done to me.

“The doctor… he would stick his fingers inside me. And just soil me with his gloved hands. I would shut my eyes just praying for the time to be over.” It was coming back to me now. She mumbled something our first night together. The same thing she mumbled at the benefit. Almost like, a bible scripture.

“For a time, it had just become my normal whenever my papa had a feeling. For a long time, I thought that was what every father had done to their daughter's, until a girlfriend of mine told me that it wasn't. At least twice a year he'd make me endure those nightmares. More if I hung out a little later than intended with my girlfriend or something. I made a habit of just coming straight home from school because I loathed every minute it took to drive to that hospital room.

Sick thing was, I think the doctor liked putting me through it. Like he got off on or something. The second I turned eighteen, I swore, I would never let him touch me again. The final time came a few weeks short of my eighteenth birthday. He tried to get around it, trying to get me to consent to something more. But I swore to him I’d scream if he took his pants off. I'm sure going to miss these times with you. That was the last thing he said to me. On the way to my Papa’s car, I threw up on the side of the sidewalk. I felt so fucking disgusting.”

Half way through her story I knew right away. The doctor at our table. The way she became unresponsive. He was her abuser. And there she was, forced to sit next to him and relive her own personal of hell.

“The white man at our table tonight, was it him?” Fighting back tears, her voice cracked.

“Yes.” Overwhelmed with rage, I shot up from the toilet.

“I have to go.” I needed to find out where the man lived. I had to make him pay for hurting her. With a pull to my wrist, her doe eyes pleaded with me.

“I don't want to be alone right now. Please, don’t go.” I wanted to leave, I needed to tear through a fucking wall. Most of all I wanted to make him pay for the pain and suffering he caused, but there was something about the innocent look in her eye and warm feel of her touch that had grounded me. Bending down to her, I brought her wrists to my lips, planting kisses to her hand.

“I promise, Queenie. I won't let anything hurt you. Let's get you out of here so that precious skin doesn't shrivel up.” Wrapping a towel around her curvy frame, I helped her out of the bathtub, another towel in tow as I carried her to the bedroom and carefully lied her on the bed.

“I'm just going to help you dry your legs and feet off, and if you want, I can grab you something to wear so you can lay down.” She nodded, allowing me to wipe the excess moisture from her limbs and toes, as to save myself the headache, I grabbed her a dress shirt from my closet because despite her curvy figure, she was still smaller than me.

“I'll give you some privacy. That extra room has a nice twin size bed with my name on it. I thought you might be more comfortable sleeping here since you have been for the past day or two. Got quite used to a twin spending the last three years in prison. Least this one's a million times more comfortable.” Buttoning my dress shirt up, she let the towel underneath her fall to the floor.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could just lay here with me? Just until I fall asleep.” My eyes widened in surprise, suddenly realizing I was in nothing but dirty clothes.

“Do you mind if I change my shirt and trousers? I don't want the first time I sit with you, for me to be covered in piss. Shyly, she bit her lip, stacking her smooth, brown legs on top of each other on the bed.

“Of course.”

“I'll just be a moment.” I exited up the room, grabbing a shirt and trousers on my way to the toilet. Having a quick wash and change, I returned to our shared bedroom, curling up next to her small, curvy frame. This close, she felt so small in my arms. This close, she felt like mine. When she didn't flinch from my touch, I pressed up against her, finding solace in the aroma of her flower-scented hair.

“I want to remind you that whatever's happened to you, isn't your fault. Sometimes the people that should be protecting us, are the first to put us in harm's way. My Pa had me do things that I didn't want to do either. Hearing your bravery and honesty, helps me understand that what I went through wasn't my fault either. Which is why I'm so quick to act in those types of situations. Groomers fucking disgust me. And the only good pedo I ever met, was a dead one. If I could rid the whole fucking world of them I would.” I placed my hand on her shoulder, as she hooked her foot around the length of my calf.

“You do know that it's not your fault, don’t you?” She shrugged.

“Sometimes. For the longest, my freedom and the right over my body had belonged to my father. In those dark moments in the examination room, I only ever belonged to him. And then, just days ago I was told that I would belong to you. The man I helped lock away. Seems like it’ll never be me who decides who I belong to, or even if I want to belong to anyone.”

Brushing my finger along her cheek, I couldn't help admiring the contrast between her skin tone and mine.

“If you decide that you don't like it here, then you don’t have to stay. I'm not going to force anyone to stay married to me, especially if you'd rather be with someone of your own kind.” Under her breath, she laughed.

“And what exactly is someone of my own kind?”

“Wholesome. A man who’s got a good relationship with God. A man who makes an honest living in a factory or an office. Not a street thug like me.” She hmphed.

“And here I thought that you were going to say Colored.”

“Yeah, that too.” She flipped over to face me, her gamine features looking especially soft with the help of city lights from outside.

“You know, you Irish care more about skin color more than we ever will.” She cast her gaze downward, resting her eyes as she adjusted her head on her elbow. With a stroke of her cheek, a soft moan left her lips, her angelic face looking peaceful as she rested.

“Maybe, but I'm starting not to think much about your color. Only to the fact that I think it's stunning.”

“Hmm,” she mumbled, quietly drifting off in her peaceful version of sleep.

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