Cross my eyes, I hope you die.

I can relive every moment of the nightmare in my head - the heat of Daddy's breath, his calloused hands on my smooth skin, and the whispered words of love. My chest tightens with memories and my eyes sting.1

It was my seventh birthday and I woke up early with excitement. It was a Saturday and my mom made my favorite breakfast, chocolate-chip pancakes. My mom gave me my plate, kissed me on my forehead and said, "Happy birthday, sweetie." Her strong perfume made my nose wrinkle, but I smiled brightly for her. Daddy walked in confidently a second later. Mom got real still so Daddy could kiss her on the cheek. Her eyes sparkled in the light. I also saw her makeup. She really liked her purple eyeshadow.2

Daddy walked over to me and wrapped his strong arms around me. He kissed my cheek and whispered, "Happy birthday, Princess." I smiled up at him, just like I did to Mommy. He went to Mommy and pulled her into a different room. I thought Mommy had a hearing problem because Daddy was always yelling so she could hear him. I just continued to eat my breakfast.3

The day went on. I had a few friends over for my birthday. I opened presents with pink wrapping paper. Boxes open to reveal my seven-year-old heart's desires. I hug both my parents after unwrapping my presents and tell them "thank you" with sincerity.4

When all my friends left, I helped to pick up the trash from the birthday party. Daddy had left to do something so it was just Mommy and I to clean it all. Afterward we had some more cake and ice-cream.5

After awhile I went to my room. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I woke up to find my father by my side. His hands were splayed out on my stomach. The heat of them scorching my skin. Without saying anything he started to kiss my lips. His hands began to explore my young undeveloped flesh. I didn't know what to say. At first I was confused, but soon I was afraid. I started to ask him what he was doing and I asked him to stop. He stopped his hands and looked at my face. He asked me in a hushed tone, "You love me, don't you?" I nodded because I did love my Daddy. "Trust me, darling. I love you. You know that don't you?" I nodded again believing that he loved me. He continued his onslaught and I just layed there and said nothing.6

Nights like this one continued. He didn't come every night so I was left guessing. I didn't know when to sleep with one eye open or to just sleep deep, unafraid. Every time he came to my room to use me, he asked me if I loved him and if I blieved that he loved me. I always answered yes to both questions. It went on like this for four years. I was still confused and strangely hurt.7

One day I came home from school, I called for my mother and she didn't answer. I didn't think anything about it. I turned on the television until I got bored. I looked for my mother. I went to her room, thinking she was asleep. I heard water running so I checked her bathroom. She was in the bathtub and the water was overflowing. I turned off the water and walked to her side. She had blood seeping through her wrists. Her eyes were dead and she was motionless. I was no stranger to death. I had a hampster that died of old age when I was five. I went to her side immediately. She couldn't be dead. She was just asleep. I cried for her to wake up. She didn't move. I held her for a while, crying. When my father came home he tore me from my mother and carried me to my room. There he layed me on the bed and left to make the call.8

My father left me alone for three months. When he came to me one night I told him to leave. I didn't want him in my room. I didn't want to see him. He stayed in my room. He walked to me slowly. He tried to soothe me and put his arms around me, but I pushed him away. He stood there for a second stunned that I defied him. Then his face became tight with fury. He slapped me hard across the face. My head snapped back and I fell against the bed. My dad started to tell me he loved me and it was time that I gave him some appreciation. He started to hit me across the face with fists. When he was done he used my body in a way he never had before. He hurt me that day more than he ever had.9

Years later in my life I fully understood my childhood innocence. My mother didn't have strong perfume, it was alcohol so she could drown in her sorrows. She didn't wear eyeshadow, that was the evidence of my father's beatings. She didn't stand still for him to kiss her, she stiffened with anger and sorrow. Her eyes didn't glittler with love, it was unshed tears she tried to hide from me. He would yell at her and call her all kinds of names. She committed suicide to escape the pain.10