Page 31 of Do It For Me
My father whispers things in my ear, but I don’t listen. If I pay attention, I’ll vomit when he finishes.
I think about Dante and how he makes me feel alive, how he pulls me away from my reality even for a little while.
We talk every night before sleep. I told him that if he wants to sneak in, he should wait until after two in the morning. If he comes earlier, he might see my father doing this, and I don’t want him to. That would shatter the image he has of me. I’drather he thinks I’m a drug-addicted hooker than a dirty woman who asked for it.
I always ask for it, even in my own room.
I asked for it when I was five years old. I asked for it now, in the middle of a bloody shower. Inmybathroom.
How can people blame me for this? How can they say I deserve it? How can they not see beyond? How can they believe I want this, when all I think about is throwing myself out the window? I don’t want to know if Dante would blame me too, so I’ll take this to my grave.
My father makes a disgusting sound and finally stops. He kisses my hair and moves away from me.
And then, as every night he does this, I fall asleep crying.
COUNTDOWN
My father walks into the room, carrying a TV and a DVD player.
“Your mother refused, but it’s time for you to learn how to please a man.”
My heart pounds in my chest, and my body stiffens. Is he going toteachme? I don’t want him to do that to me. He told me he wouldn’t… so will he make me do it with other men?
“How—”
“Pay attention to these videos. To women. You must act like them when the time comes. No one likes a statue in bed.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t want to watch those things. That’s supposed to be private.
“Shut up and do as I say.”
My father inserts one of the CDs.
A woman is straddling a man. He touches her breasts as she grinds against him, back and forth. The way he looks at her—with so much admiration and desire—makes me wish someone would look at me like that.
“When that one stops, you’ll watch the rest of the pile I got you. I’ll know if you don’t.”
He leaves. The woman on the tape moans as she keeps grinding against her partner. My phone vibrates.
Dante.
I giggle softly and hug my legs as I read his message.
Dante:How did you sleep, sweetheart?
We’ve been texting nonstop for the past few days. He doesn’t even care about my spelling mistakes, though I’m mortified by them. He’s climbed up to my window three times since our little picnic and helped me with it—a bit. He hasn’t kissed me again, and I appreciate that, but it’s strange that he doesn’t want that kind of contact. We hug and touch a lot—he even asked for permission to—but no kisses.
Me:You kno I dont sleep very wel
Dante:The nightmares?
Me:Yes. Doesnt mater if I go to sleep hapy, I wake up with one of them
And they’re not really nightmares—they’re memories I don’t know how to stop.
That aside, my father hasn’t hit or touched me again, but he still watches me when I shower until I’m dressed. I don’t understand why he does it, and I’m sick of it.
He is my worst nightmare, and I can’t escape him.
