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“Don't be a bad girl for Daddy. It's my job to check.”
Tears leak from my eyes as I bite my bottom lip and nod. But I don’t move anymore. It hurts, like a fire low inside my belly, but I don’t dare move. Not with Daddy's other hand still digging into my bottom.
He keeps checking, shoving his fat finger in places I didn’t know I had. It hurts. Bad. But I don’t scream. I try not to cry. I don’t want to be a bad girl.
I don’t want to be a bad girl.
My body feels weird. My stomach turns, like I’m going to throw up.
Something feels wrong. Like when I’m really hurt and need a Band-Aid.
I open my mouth to speak, but Daddy talks first, yanking his hand out of me.
“Uh-oh.”
I jerk my eyes open. He holds his finger up in front of my face. It’s wet. And a little red, like it’s coated in blood.
He shakes his head. “Somebody was very, very dirty.”
I swallow as he grips my bare butt so hard I’m sure it will leave bruises. I try to blink back my tears, but a few drip down my cheeks. I don’t want to be dirty. I want to be clean.
A slow grin spreads across his lips, but it doesn’t look like a happy smile. “What happens to bad, dirty girls?”
A sob escapes my chapped lips. “Please, Daddy. I-I didn’t –”
“You did this. You need to make it clean. If you lick it all off, really well, you’ll only get five spankings.”
Before I can answer, he shoves his dirty finger in my mouth.
* * *
I scream.
My stomach turns. I make it all the way to the toilet before I throw up everything inside my gut. Fat tears spill down my cheek, splashing into the vomit filled basin.
My head throbs. My insides turn. My entire body aches as though he had just been touching me all over again. I wish I could throw up until all of my insides tumbled out, then soak them in bleach and make them clean. I hurl again, the orange bile burns the back of my throat, stinging like all the cleansers I’ve swallowed trying to erase the memories.
After flushing the toilet, I grab the vanity, searching through its messy contents until I growl. I’m still out of pills. I walk to the shower and turn it on the hottest setting it will go to. Grabbing a bar of soap, I scrub and scrub. I scrub every inch of my body until my skin is raw.
I don’t want to be dirty.
More tears fall, mixing with the shower stream as I crash to the floor and hug my knees to my chest.
I don’t want to be dirty.
I grip my temples, pushing in on my head, willing the voices to stop. But they don’t stop.
When the water turns ice cold, I crawl out of the shower and dry off. Pulling on a long, white, maxi dress, I hurry out of my room.
I need something. Something stronger than the pills or empty, rum bottle sitting on my nightstand to make the memories leave. Anything to stop the voices.
I stumble down the hallway, gripping my head, willing the pain to stop. In the kitchen, Damien sits at the island, drinking a glass of orange juice while reading the newspaper beside a cardboard takeout box full of spam musubi. A few fresh bruises mar his knuckles. Calm. Dangerous. Dressed in his black suit.
I stop in my tracks, watching him. Slowly, I lower my hands. He doesn’t need my pain. He doesn’t need my problems. So, I put on a smile, just like I was taught. I stroll up to him even though inside the pain is ripping me apart.
It’s been four days since I actually slept. I wish I could blame it all on my nightmares, but there are also the fights between Damien and Dorian. He moved into the room across the hallway a few days ago. He's gone most of the time. But when he’s here, everyone in the entire building knows. Then there are the strange noises emanating from Damien's room in the middle of the night. Sometimes, it's punching, others, strangled screams, or items crashing. The sounds, too haunting, leave me paralyzed in my room.
Yet there he stands, perfect like nothing’s ever wrong.
