A Tale Of Daddy {Part One}

When the moon is full and the crickets sing, I can stand at my terrace and find myself almost tasting the past. The wind blows through my hair and reminds me of the water through the reeves, playing with my mother in the sands by the pond in summer. It is all seemingly so very close past in time. If I hadn't known then that my dear mommy would live forever, I would have been wiser probably, to both the world and myself. I live a forsaken life, and the pain I have felt is partially caused by the memory of it. Mostly, however, it was her. My existence calls for believing that the past was a lie. I cannot live like this forever. I am so very old in spirit, and yet young at heart. The conflict has ruled my mind for the better part of thirty years. When life becomes ruled, dominated by the thought of blocking out memories of a time too miserable and sorrowful to remember, then the living sometimes need to let go.  Sometimes the steam needs to be let out. A pressure valve, released.  The pain in my past has overcome me. Therefore, I tell you now the story of my childhood. A frightening tale of murderous greed and painful regret. But beware not the past my friends. Beware only the future, and the horrors you have yet to encounter. They will come many. They will come strong.1

The first time I saw my father, I was frightened. His overpowering musk of vodka, and gruesome, wire-like beard added to my fear. But it was the relentless beating, and the endless screaming that instilled the true horror into my soul. My mother was certainly no wiser for taking him back, and I shall never forget the moment I caught him stained by her blood, and hiding her body so guiltily. Though he hid her shamefully, he had no remorse. No regret for the women he murdered in cold blood, and no sorrow for the child he left motherless and alone. At that very moment, I witnessed my sentencing to life without a rock. This is the beginning of my story, and the introduction to my life. But it is, after all, only the beginning.2

I cannot delve too deep into detail with this part, this beginning. For my heart has blocked so many horrifying memories, I find myself straining to recall the ones I recite to you now. However, one week later, and the few weeks to come are still vivid in my mind. I often find myself waking sweatily from a sleep stalked with dreams of this time. When horrid events flowed like blood, and fond ones came scarce. From what I'd been told, I assume I slept most of the following week. Not from tiredness, but from the sedatives fed to me by my father. I was his captive, and as I was told,  now belonged to him. I was seven then, and had no real understanding of what was going on around me. I did, however know that my mommy was dead. And I was at least bright enough to know that daddy was a bad man for it. I obeyed him then, not because of my love for him, and not because of the non-existent admiration that most little girls have of their fathers. I listened to him purely of fear. Well, perhaps "purely" is not the greatest word for it. I also listened to this murderous bastard because I knew he was all I had left. Somewhere, lost deep in my subconscious, I clung to the fact that I had a daddy, and that he was with me. Never-mind the fact that he killed my mother, and used me as his personal slave. I truly believed that he was all I had to live for. That I was nothing without him. This man was, after all, my daddy ...and I was daddy's little girl.3

{Please see the next installment when complete}4