Shallow River

Bringing me here wasn’t premediated. He chose this place last minute. Maybe he even decided to kidnap me last minute.

I settle deeper into the mattress until I’m sure I can feel the cold floor seeping into my shoulder blades and wait for Billy to show up.

TIME BECOMES DILLUTED. I’ve fallen into a restless sleep when I hear the slam of a door. My body jolts awake. Just barely do I keep myself from bolting upright. If Billy doesn’t kill me first, the onslaught of pain from doing something like that surely would.

I crack open my eyelids, only to be met with muted light. Even with the softness of the glow, it sends sharp pinpricks of pain to my head.

“You’re awake,” he says coldly. The wooden stairs groan beneath his weight. Each creak radiates throughout my skull followed by piercing pain so sharp, I’m sure my brain is falling into pieces. Fucker gave me a concussion.

“No shit,” I groan, my throat dry and burning from dehydration. The moment the words leave my mouth, I brace myself for his trigger-happy fist. Billy never liked it when I talked back.

“Watch it,” he snaps. Thankfully, he keeps his hands to himself this time. When I muster the courage to look at him, he’s standing over me, legs spread and hands in his pockets. Blank-faced and well-dressed as ever, as if he’s used to kidnapping girls in a three-piece Armani suit.

That’s right. He is.

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask with a resigned sigh. It’s not that the prospect of how Billy is going to kill me doesn’t absolutely terrify me, it’s that I’ve resigned myself to this fate long ago, and now that it’s here, it’s almost a relief. No more do I have to look over my shoulder, hoping not to see the devil standing behind me.

I’ve grown tired and weary of this life. I’m not entirely sad that it’s getting cut short.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He sighs, plops the wooden chair directly in front of me and sits, the rickety wood groaning dangerously under his weight. I hate that I flinch away when he lifts his hand to my face, swiping a stray piece of hair out of my eyes. He picks up the errant curl and tugs on it until it’s straight. His eyes pick over the strand, fascinated with my natural curls.

Billy always loved my curly hair.

“Do you know why I’ve always loved your hair?” he asks, picking up on my thoughts.

I don’t really care why. But I’d rather have Billy talking to me rather than him torturing or raping me.

“Why?” I croak, wincing from the dryness in my throat. He doesn’t make a move to fix my problem.

“Your hair has always been a symbol of your tenacity. You bounce back. It didn’t matter what I did to you. I stretched you thin, and no matter how hard I did it—you always bounced back from it. It was fascinating watching you grow up. It made me want to try harder to break you, but I never really could.”

Didn’t he, though? I almost argue that point. I suppose Billy’s version of breaking someone is pushing them to the point where they off themselves. I refused to kill myself, though I’ve always contemplated the idea like I’m deciding what I’m going to eat for dinner.

I don’t say anything. I’m sure the psychopath expects me to feel praised and offer him a thank-you, but I might be liable to spit on him instead if I open my mouth.

He sighs and drops the curl like burning coal, seemingly disappointed in my lack of response. A narcissist doesn’t like their compliments to go unappreciated. His hand travels back to my face, petting my skin softly. Shivers of revulsion travel down my spine, and I don’t bother to hide the reaction.

“I should’ve killed you when you were young,” he muses softly.

“You should’ve,” I agree.

He pauses, and when he does, it feels like the world does, too. Earth stops spinning on its axis, and for a moment, time stills. His hand whips to my hair in the next second, yanking me off the cot roughly. A startled scream releases from my throat. Fear pumps through my veins like poison as he drags me across the dirty floor and to the middle of the room. My hand curls around his wrist, desperate to pull myself up to relieve the sharp pain spreading throughout my scalp.

“Ungrateful bitch,” he spits, shoving my head away. My temple knocks onto the cement floor. Stars burst across my vision, leaving trails of black spots in their wake. My face is then pushed into the ground with one hand while he tears at my pants with the other.

“What I really should’ve done,” he starts, his breath heaving with the effort of pulling my pants down my kicking legs. “Is push your mother down the fucking stairs when I got her pregnant with you.”

“Yeah?” I shout, hysteria starting to possess my body. “I wish you fucking would’ve, too, Billy! I wish you would’ve, too. At least then I would’ve never known a vile, pathetic man like you!”

“Shut up!” he roars, stopping his goal to punch me once in the back of the head. Stars explode in my eyes, and without my permission, my body slackens. Once I do, Billy finally gets my pants down. The cool hair hits my backside, and something about that feeling makes my skin crawl. That was always when I knew it was going to get ugly while growing up. Once I felt my pants slip down my legs, my safety net was gone and what came after always hurt.

The fight in me rejuvenated, I wriggle hard, bucking to and fro but to no avail. His weight comes down on top of me, pinning me in place. I feel his hardness pressing into my bare backside, the zipper painfully rubbing against my skin.

He shoves a hand between our bodies, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping his pants in a matter of seconds. I gag when I feel flesh on flesh.

“You’re my father, and you’re going to rape me?!” I scream, outraged and disturbed by his lack of morals.

I still don’t want to believe he’s my father. But deep in my bones, I know Barbie and him aren’t lying. Little bits and pieces of memories flash through my head. Barbie spitting on me when I smiled at my worn teddy bear, telling me I smile just like Billy does. Or when I pushed another kid down for sticking his hand up my dress, cracking his head open, followed by her snide comment telling me I’m just like my father. Comments that never held enough weight at the time, but suddenly feel like a ton of bricks now.