She has no memories of when she was small. Well, very few. Even fewer happy ones. Fishing with her GrandDad. Getting a dollhouse for Christmas. Holding her little sister's pinkie because it was soft and squishy. That's about it for good times. Having the Chicken Pox. Having a classmate throw up on her desk. Dodging a flying drinking glass. Gasping for air after being punched in the chest. Being thrown into a plate glass mirror. Yes, there are definitely more not-so-happy memories. She often wonders how many her mind has simply repressed in order to protect what little sanity she still has.
He was living breathing evil. Still is - as he is still living and breathing. Forced her to endure so many levels of hell. Shameful, unspeakable horrors. All for his personal pleasure. All at the threat of hurting her sister. She couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't. She still isn't sure where her maternal, protective drive came from. It doesn't seem to be inherited. At least not from her Mother. He was her Mother's 2nd husband. Her mother allowed this to happen.
He raped her almost every night. He worked the late afternoon/ evening shift at the train yard. Usually got home a bit before midnight. He would change into his horrible brown and navy velour robe, then go to her room. Sometimes he would actually wake her up before forcing himself on her. Other nights he would just ram himself into her while she was sleeping. Neither night was easier on her. With one, she wasn't lucid to know what was coming, but with the other, she was awake to expect it. Both were equally painful and humiliating. The robe had a cloth belt he liked to use. To bind her hands so she couldn't move. To tie around her throat so she couldn't breathe. To wrap around her face to cover her tears and sobs. To this day she abhors velour. The feel of it on her skin turns her stomach to acid. The sight of it loosens her bowels. She tries not to let it bother her so - after all, its just a fabric. Threads and fibers. But some seeds are planted too deeply to ever kill completely.
Although she was just a child, she was well aware her life was not normal. Not by a long shot. But, she also knew her life, and that of her younger sister, depended on her behaving normally. As normally as humanly possible. Like any other elementary aged girl. Then middle school aged girl. Then high school aged girl. She grew into a fabulous actress. She taught herself how to leave her own mind and body. To separate herself into two parts. Two separate beings. One who experienced the good the world had to offer. The other who dealt with the worst. and did what was necessary to fight back. She learned to survive. She had no other choice. She wasn't ready to die. Not by his hand, at least. And she wouldn't allow these horrific acts to befall her sister. Not if she could help it. Not while she was still living. Still breathing.
She became wise before her years. Incredibly intuitive. Keenly observant of her surroundings at all times. She trusted no one. She was able to read the expressions and feel the emotions of others quickly and correctly. She honed her ability to live under the radar. She diligently strived to blend in with the back ground. To be unnoticeable. Unmemorable. She was careful with her words and actions. Oh so careful. Once, while cleaning the house, she discovered a recorder attached to the telephone jack. Instinctively, she knew it was his. She knew he was spying. Controlling. Finding new ways to ensure she never told their secret. His sordid secret. She knew he would kill her if she ever did talk. She gently removed the line from the wall jack, then reinserted it - but not all the way. It didn't click into place. Perhaps this would cause the recorded not to work for a while. Perhaps not. She was careful not to disturb the rest of the area. He couldn't know she had discovered it. Or tampered with the line. She was afraid - yet still empowered. She resolved not to go down without a fight.