My father doesn’t talk to me anymore.
When I was two, I was his bundle of love. Every time he held me, you could tell that his eyes glowed with pride and affection.
When I was seven, I ran to him crying. I told him there was a monster under my bed. And he told me, “Sweetie, monsters aren’t real.”
And when I was eleven, I knew he was lying. Because, he became the monster on my bed.
It started suddenly. The trips to my bedroom. The recurring hugs and kisses. The lying next to me. The caressing my hand. Then caressing everywhere.
And then the sudden mood swings. The looks. The alcohol.
Then the disrobing. Of me. The forced disrobing.
First, I resisted. Then, I gave in.
Later along the way, I gave up.
There were times when I tried to escape, but couldn’t. The ‘monster’ caught me when I tried to run. “No one runs away from home, sweetie” his dry voice still haunts me.
Every time I tried to talk about it, somehow the words stuck in my throat. ‘No one will believe you’ was what I told myself.
Those cold fingers found their way about, just everywhere. Those colder eyes had seen everything to see.
Then, the blow fell. I was destroyed. Wasted. Emotionally and physically. Now, the picture was complete.
“What did you even raise me for? For this?” was all I could manage before I fell into a deep slumber.
At times, I wondered. Just for a day, could I see? The dad I loved? The dad I believed in? At the least, a decent human being. And not the sick monster who preyed on me every night.
Then, one sunny morning the cops came. I’d finally done it.
“They took him away to a bad, bad place where bad, bad men live. You are safe now, sweetie” the officer told me.
The look on my father’s place was a mixture of regret and hate and disappointment. And curiously, relief.
My father doesn’t talk to me anymore.
