THE DOLL
I woke bathed in sweat, filled with images of father returned to life. He appeared to me as I remember in my earliest memories, looking rather handsome in those days before the alcohol completely dried out his soul. In my dream he brought me a present, a doll with pretty blonde hair. He said it reminded him of me.
Years later mother informed me father stole the doll and lit it on fire in front of both of us. The three of us watched the flames engulf the doll, the plastic eyes melting and the awful smell of the plastic hair burning made me cough and run from the room.
Father beat mother something awful that day and for once, maybe the first time, I didn't feel the least bit bad about it. I wouldn't say she had it coming for burning that doll, after all father stole it, but I sure wasn't going to scream and make a fuss to stop him. That might make it my turn.
But it somehow always got back around to being my turn. Father got bored with beating mother because he didn't like those other things anymore with her the way he took to wanting them with me. And you know what I'm talking about. He liked me to sit on his lap while we watched the television and slow and sure he'd whisper into my ear all the while pressing that thing into me relentlessly for hours.
Some days it felt like he'd never stop. When mother died I thought I could control him, thought he'd treat me better without her jealous anger forcing him to steal affection, to be sneaky about the things he did to me in the night.
But, none of that happened. No. He just did those things all the time once she went away into the big void in the sky or wherever we all go when our bodies quit. Over and over and always.
Some of those things I'll never speak about, can't talk about. Some secrets need to remain secret. I'll take them with me, clutching them like mother's church pearls, as my soul rides away into that big void in the sky.
Years later mother informed me father stole the doll and lit it on fire in front of both of us. The three of us watched the flames engulf the doll, the plastic eyes melting and the awful smell of the plastic hair burning made me cough and run from the room.
Father beat mother something awful that day and for once, maybe the first time, I didn't feel the least bit bad about it. I wouldn't say she had it coming for burning that doll, after all father stole it, but I sure wasn't going to scream and make a fuss to stop him. That might make it my turn.
But it somehow always got back around to being my turn. Father got bored with beating mother because he didn't like those other things anymore with her the way he took to wanting them with me. And you know what I'm talking about. He liked me to sit on his lap while we watched the television and slow and sure he'd whisper into my ear all the while pressing that thing into me relentlessly for hours.
Some days it felt like he'd never stop. When mother died I thought I could control him, thought he'd treat me better without her jealous anger forcing him to steal affection, to be sneaky about the things he did to me in the night.
But, none of that happened. No. He just did those things all the time once she went away into the big void in the sky or wherever we all go when our bodies quit. Over and over and always.
Some of those things I'll never speak about, can't talk about. Some secrets need to remain secret. I'll take them with me, clutching them like mother's church pearls, as my soul rides away into that big void in the sky.