It’s my 19th birthday. Everything’s falling apart and I need you here. Its time father, come
home? See me? For once and for all.
The party’s over. Today, I spoke for the first time, raised a voice and a lot of other things.
Ever since I started talking, I haven’t been able to walk. It hurts, father. I was small and that
monster would take me to places. Initially these places would be dark eventually even the
bright sun would create a dark ambience. I loved frocks, but I stopped liking them when I
was only 6. They were uh too open, made me feel too vulnerable. As I grew up, somehow
everything that I wore became too open, everything made me feel vulnerable. I did not know
how and what to do. I cried because it hurt, I had no idea that it was wrong. I had no idea
what was wrong.
Everything was right, like they told me. I didn’t know what comfort was. I always walked
with my thighs stiff, until he found me, they would then bend and twist and open and shiver
with pain. Mom was an artist and her art was overlooking this pain. She’d somehow always
miss the pleasure, that’s what he called it. I don’t even know what he saw, I could only see
everything blurred, like I was drowning, mostly because my eyes would tear up so much, but
who cared. I did not know crying was sad. I had no idea what was sad.
Years passed and the tears turned red, flowing not from the eyes but every piece of my body.
Everyone told me you are him. Everyone told me he is father. But he’s never been what they
told me a father is like. He would never get me clothes and rather take the ones I have away.
None of my friends have seen their father naked. He’d never get me chocolates, they felt
more like a bait. I felt more like a rat, a dirty, naked rat. A father is never a nightmare. He’d
break my bones and cut my skin just to get deeper and deeper, until my soul would shiver.
Forced and forced to tell him, to show him that I like it. Smashed and slapped and thrown
away when he’s done. Torn, not my clothes but my chest, wide open and the heart ripped out.
I would now just lay there, dead like water, taking any shape that he wants me to. I was small
and no one was watching. I was small and dead. He’s nothing like you father. He’s real.
It’s my 19th birthday and dad came to my room and told me I can get anything I want for a
birthday gift and I asked for you father. He held me from neck and his other hand went for a
smooth but scratchy run on my body while he dug his lustful face in my neck. I could not
take it anymore and let the glass vase take it. For the first time he’s tearing up red and I’m
not. There was no other choice father, he gave me birth but he didn’t give me what I
deserved. I deserved you, I deserved a smile, a laughter. I deserved push from you when I’d
sit alone on the swing. I deserved a kiss from you when I lay in bed. I deserved support, I
deserved an applaud when I scored those goals. I deserved a pat on the back and not a spank
on my bottom. They said boys don’t face this. I deserved someone who’d believe me. I could
lie, but I’ve done that too much already. I’m coming to you father. I’ll let the glass vase take