Daddy’s Girl: A Gimpy Monologue

Cooking Knifes
Cooking Knifes (Photo credit: nickwheeleroz)

 

In the dead of night, I can hear him. Stumbling his way into the room, breathing heavy, the scent of whiskey wafts into my nose. I hear the clanking of the belt buckle as he loosens it, his pants coming down… Touching me again, in a way that fathers are never supposed to touch their daughters… Telling me I’m his sweet angel, his salvation. As he tries to enter me, I push him back and kick him with all the force I can muster. He calls me a whore, he tells me I deserve to be punished. Dirty, demonic, hell stained. I ran to the kitchen and grab the biggest knife I can find, he tries to calm me down… Tells me that I’m overreacting… Just trying to show me how much he loves me. But what he doesn’t know, that every time I fall asleep the only thing I can think of… the darkness that envelops me, this skin crawling putrefying feeling of uncleanliness that never goes away, no matter how many showers I take, no matter how pretty I try to make myself look, no matter how much perfume I wear, his stench is always on me. He lunges forward to put his hands around my throat, and I’ve plunged the knife into his stomach. As the blood runs down, I can feel the freedom and regret closing around me simultaneously. I’m crying… Sobbing… Screaming, filled with rage and sadness.

 

Suddenly, I don’t know where I am. This isn’t my parents’ house? The man standing in front of me is not my father, he’s my husband. My kids are standing there with him wondering what just happened. They’re afraid… They’re afraid of me. Thank God I didn’t really stab him; he’s bloody though, no doubt I hit him. The knife is in my hand, I release it and it falls to the floor. What’s wrong with me? Maybe this is what he meant, when the doctor told me that I had PTSD.

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