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Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“Wow.” Is all I hear as strong pair of hands grab my waist and haul me off the ground. The dim light hits the figure and I find a huge man, around my father’s age, smirking at me.
“Pretty.” His breath fans across my face and my entire body locks up, nerves spiralling and blood pumping at a maddening pace.
“W-who are you? W-where is…my sister?” I sob, unable to comprehend the sudden tears, my body taught around everywhere his touch lands.
Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
The lullaby registers in my brain and my eyes widen when he places his finger on my lips.
“Shhh…” He grabs my face in his huge, hairy hands. “Don’t speak.” He urges and I nod as he sits back down on the chair with me in his lap.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
My head turns to an old record player in the corner, the needle scratching softly between verses.
“It was my daughter’s favourite lullaby.” He is speaking English but it sounds different, almost frightening. My entire body is rigid as I feel something hard beneath me.
His hands travelling around my body, opening the buttons of the pink shirt I chose to wear today.
I like pink. But I don’t think I like it when he’s touching it. His hands make it feel dirty.
Like they’re taking all the pink away.
“What is your name pretty girl?” He asks.
Although I’m too scared to speak, my mouth opens and a whimpered words rushes past my lips. “E-Elara.”
The fabric falls open as his hands touch my torso, cupping my breasts and I jerk back.
“Wh-what…is, what…are you d-doing?” My hand smacks against his chest, trying to push him away, but he only pulls me closer, my struggles futile and meaningless against his strength.
Tears fall, and they fall harder as he slaps my cheek when my fight grows to annoy him. My head lolls to the left as he hits me again.
“Don’t fight daddy, Ela.” He lifts my body off his, my breath halting, the lack of contact making me breathe until I hear a loud tear of my matching pyjama pants, and cold air touches my skin—my exposed legs.
“Or else daddy’s going to make it hurt.”
My feet dangle in the air, and I squeeze my eyes shut, as if darkness might undo whatever is happening to me.
What is happening?
The touch is so unfamiliar, its wrong. So wrong.
I used to think it hurt when Mum twisted my ear, but that is nothing compared to the pain I feel when something invades me.
A shriek rips out of my chest. Pain. Pain. Pain.
“No!” I cry and my fingers curls into fists as he pushes himself inside me. “No.” My shouts muffled beneath his palm and he blocks my airway, my back touching the mattress as he lays me down.
