When Dawn Breaks

by Melissa Toppen

  “I moved back home after school.” He clears his throat and turns, taking a seat in the chair just to our right. “I wanted to be close to my sisters and, honestly, I wanted to keep an eye on my mom. Even though I place a lot of the blame with her, I think at the end of the day she was just scared.”

  “That’s no excuse not to protect your child,” I blurt, taking a seat on the couch directly across from Ant.

  “You’re right. It’s not. But my mother is not the kind of mom you are. She never fought for me, ever. But at the end of the day she’s still my mom, and while I will never truly forgive what she allowed to happen, I also wasn’t willing to stand by and let it happen to her since all the kids had moved out.”

  He lets out a deep exhale before continuing.

  “Things were good for a while. I kept my distance from the house when I knew my father was home and bowed out anytime my mom invited me and my sisters over for dinner. I was trying to move past it all, and for the most part, I was doing okay. But then late one afternoon, when I was clearing out the last of my things from my old bedroom, he stumbled in drunk and well, you can probably guess what happened next.” He leans back into the chair and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “He hit you?” I ask when he makes no effort to elaborate.

  “He tried,” he laughs bitterly. “Got a fucking broken nose for his efforts.”

  “And you?”

  “He didn’t hurt me, at least not physically. I’m not a little kid anymore. Being arrested, on the other hand, that wasn’t the most pleasant experience in the world.”

  “Arrested? Why would you be arrested?”

  “Because he said I attacked him, and because he didn’t get a hand on me I looked like the aggressor.”

  “Was anyone else home to witness it?”

  “My mom, but she would never go against my father. She supported his claim that I instigated the whole thing. That was the real eye-opener for me. I realized right then and there that the person I was trying the most to protect had no interest in being protected or protecting me for that matter. Vi posted bail for me the next day, and the charges were later dropped. I think my dad realized that he risked opening a door he may not be able to close if he pursued action against me. As soon as I was cleared I packed up all the things I couldn’t live without and came here.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Don’t feel sorry for me.”

  “I do feel sorry for you,” I admit.

  “Don’t,” he bites, once again pushing to his feet. “I can take everything else but not that.”

  “Why? I care about you, and it hurts me that you were going through this for years and you never said anything. I could’ve helped you. I could’ve been there for you,” I insist, quickly standing and closing the short distance between us.

  “I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

  “What are you talking about? How am I looking at you?”

  “Like I’m a victim. Like I’m weak.”

  “You are a victim, Anthony. Saying you’re not doesn’t change that. But I don’t see you as weak. In fact, I think you’re incredibly strong for carrying that weight all by yourself.”

  “You know, the first time I met you I was instantly drawn to you.” His statement catches me off guard, and it takes a moment for my gears to shift from what we were talking about to what he just said. “You were so beautifully broken that it took my fucking breath away.”

  Words completely fail me, and I can’t seem to do anything but just stand here looking up at a man who sees me more clearly than any other person probably ever has.

  “I remember looking into your eyes and thinking, fuck, this girl gets it.”

  It should bother me that he doesn’t even need to know about my past to know there is one, but oddly enough it’s kind of liberating in a way.

  “I can go with you, you know. To Connecticut,” I blurt, needing to turn the subject back to the matter at hand and pull the focus from myself.

  “I already told you, I’m not going. He can die and get it over with already. He’s been dead to me for years.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, my offer stands.”

  “Come here,” he says, the first semblance of a smile on his lips as he once again pulls me into his arms. Dropping a kiss on the top of my head, he mutters into my hair, “There’s only one place in the world I want to be right now, and this is it.”

  “Is it because of my incredible cooking skills or my superior housekeeping abilities?” I joke, knowing neither are much of a strong suit of mine.

  “Let’s go with C—none of the above.” He chuckles against me, and I’m relieved to feel him physically relax a little.

  “Hey now.” I pull back and lay a playful smack to his bare chest.

  “If I wanted to be beat on, I wouldn’t have moved all the way across the country,” He laughs, grabbing my hand and placing it back over the spot I just hit.

  “I’m sorry I…” I trail off, not really sure how to address what he just said. It’s clear he’s joking, but it feels forced.

  “Relax, Kingsley, it’s called a joke.” He smiles down at me.

  “It’s not something one typically jokes about.”

  “You know what, I really don’t care. In the matter of an hour, I not only learned my dad is dying, but for the first time ever I told someone the truth of the relationship I have with him. I think I’ve earned the right to laugh at my situation.”

  “You’ve never told anyone what you just told me?”

  “Like I said, Sebastian knows bits and pieces, but you’re the only person who now knows the full story.”

  “Thank you.” I’m not sure where the statement comes from, but it’s off my lips before I can stop it.

  “Um, why are you thanking me?” He looks down at me with a funny expression on his face.

  “For trusting me enough to open up to me.” I stare at where my hand is still pressed against his chest, his hand on top of mine, and for a brief moment, I have the overwhelming urge to do the same.

  I want to open up to him so badly I can taste it. I want to scream it from the top of my lungs, let it seep from every pore, cleanse myself of the poison that still flows through my veins every single day. Only I can’t make myself utter one single word.

  “One of these days maybe you’ll trust me enough too,” he says, tipping my chin upward so that I’m forced to meet his gaze.

  I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get a single word out, his lips are pressed gently against mine. It’s not the tear our clothes off kind of kiss we experienced that first time. It’s gentle, slow, and seemingly without real purpose. He’s kissing me simply to kiss me.

  His lips move against mine so softly that when he pulls back seconds later it’s like the kiss never happened to begin with. Well, other than the sudden rush of emotion that threatens to knock me clean off my feet.

  “There I go again.” He sighs, dropping his forehead to mine. “I keep kissing you when I know I shouldn’t.”

  “Then maybe you should think before you act,” I attempt to tease, but it comes out too weakly to do anything other than give away just how affected I am by the feel of his mouth against mine.

  “Where’s the fun in that.” I can feel his smile, even though I can’t see it, and it warms my entire body.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Anthony Treadway.” I finally pull back, happy to see his earlier turmoil has passed.

  “I can think of a few things.” He winks.

  “Such as…” I cock my head to the side, expecting some smart ass sexy comment to leave his mouth.

  “We can catch up on the new season of Game of Thrones.” He gives me the biggest pretty please smile.

  “That’s what you want to do right now? Watch Game of Thrones?” I look at him like he has five heads.

  Even though the heaviness of the ki
ss still lingers in the air, I let it go. I don’t think either of us is really up for discussing what I think we both know is happening between us. We can tell each other we don’t want to risk our friendship until we’re blue in the face, but deep down I think we’re both a little scared of how we’re feeling. Or at least I know I am.

  “I still don’t understand why you love that show so much,” I add.

  “Are you kidding me, it’s only the best show ever,” he says dramatically.

  “I think you just want to snuggle,” I tease, knowing that when we sit down to watch something we usually end up cuddling. Purely platonic, of course, or at least that’s what I tell myself.

  “What?” He smiles innocently. “I can’t help it if you’re the best snuggle buddy around. I could use a good cuddle right now.”

  “Now how can I say no to that face?” I laugh, squeezing his cheeks in a way that makes his lips pucker together.

  Eight Years Earlier- 14 years old

  The door creaks open, the same way it has nearly every night for months. I lay perfectly still, tucked on my side, afraid that any movement will give away the fact that I’m still awake. I don’t know why I try, it’s not like it’s stopped him any other night.

  I hear the door latch closed followed by the familiar click of the lock. I hold my breath as he walks toward my bed, each step growing louder and heavier the closer he gets. I feel his fingers first; they trail up my arm slowly. Next I feel the bed dip as he sits next to me.

  “Bree.” His slurred whisper sounds directly in my ear followed by the overwhelming smell of alcohol that wafts into my nose. “Are you awake, baby?”

  I don’t move, don’t speak. I close my eyes tighter and pray he goes away even though I know he won’t.

  “Bree.” His arm is on my shoulder next, pulling me to my back. I let my body fall lifeless, hoping that if I pretend not to wake up he’ll grow bored.

  “So pretty,” I hear him purr, his face now at the base of my throat, his fingers knotting around one of my nipples through my t-shirt and pinching hard.

  I can’t help but gasp, and my eyes shoot open to find his face now just inches from mine, a knowing smile etched across his mouth.

  “There she is.” He grins wider, moving his hand to the other nipple and repeating the process.

  “Please,” I start, but he cuts me off.

  “Please what?” He runs his nose along my jaw, inhaling deeply as he does. “You make me feel so good,” he purrs in my ear, his hand finding the familiar place between my legs as he begins massaging me there through the thin material of my shorts.

  I arch my back, not wanting it to feel good but also unable to deny that it does. I don’t know at what point I stopped fighting it and just let my body feel the pleasure that his assaults can bring.

  It’s the oddest thing. My stomach turns every time I hear him come in and fear clogs my throat, but then as soon as he touches me there, my entire body comes to life. I try to convince myself that this is normal—that this is the way my body is meant to react, and I can’t help it—but deep down I know that’s not the case. I shouldn’t like what he’s doing to me, and yet, in some weird way, I do.

  “That’s right, baby.” He awards my reaction by shoving the material of my panties aside and dipping two fingers into me.

  I moan, trying to fight the pleasure that courses through me. I want to focus on the fact that I hate this man, that everything about him makes my skin crawl, but it’s like his touch lights something inside of me; something that takes over my mind and gives my body complete control.

  “Shhh,” he whispers against my lips, sliding a third finger inside. “You don’t want to wake your mom.” I can hear the smile in his voice, the pleasure he gets knowing he’s got his fingers inside me while his girlfriend is passed out drunk in the next room.

  “Just do it,” I whimper, needing the physical release; the one thing that will shut my mind off. There’s no use in fighting it anyway, I already know it will happen.

  “Patience, little girl.” He stands, sliding off his shirt before pulling me up and removing mine as well.

  He slides off his pants next and like a good girl, I take mine off without being told. I know what happens if I fight him, and trust me, this is so much better.

  He stands next to my bed for a long moment, looking over my naked body in the soft light coming from the open closet door. I see the appreciation on his face, the lust in his eyes, and as much as I hate to admit it, it does something to me; knowing he wants me so badly.

  I spread my legs wider, needing him to just get it over with already. I need not to think. I need to feel. It’s the only thing that will get me through.

  “Mmm,” he groans in appreciation. “So greedy.”

  Grabbing my legs, he swings me around so that my lower half is hanging off the bed and then quickly flips me to my stomach. Pressing his weight down on me from behind, he positions his erection at my entrance and enters me in one hard thrust.

  I muffle my cry into the mattress, both loving and hating every second of this little charade we’ve been playing for the last two years. I wasn’t such a good sport about it when it all started. Having been raped by my mom’s last boyfriend when I was only eleven, I had an understandable fear of men.

  But Brad wore me down, and bit by bit he started to gain some of my trust. Of course, all that went to hell when a few months after he moved in with us he started sneaking into my room at night.

  He started off by telling me that he has needs and my mom wasn’t meeting those needs, and since we were such good friends, he needed me to help him out. The first time he only touched me and then touched himself. But each time after it went a little further until eventually, he was coming into my room two and three nights a week to have sex with me.

  I tried fighting him at first. I tried screaming and crying, kicking and hitting, but it only made things worse. He would drink more and become increasingly rougher each time until eventually, I learned to just shut up and let him do it.

  I tried to tell my mom; she never believed me. So eventually, I just accepted my fate and learned to live with what I knew was to come. Over the last year, I’ve learned to enjoy our time together. Being with him gives me no pleasure, but the things his body can do to mine does.

  My mind knows how wrong that is which is why every time he leaves I swear to myself that the next time will be the time I stop him. But then he comes in and as soon as he touches me I lose my ability to even try.

  Brad slams into me from behind so hard my shins grind into the wooden bed frame, sending pain splintering down my legs. I bite the blanket beneath my face and hold my legs more steady, refocusing on the intense feeling building in my lower stomach.

  As he increases speed, the pleasure continues to build until I’m gripping at the sheets and screaming into the mattress as an orgasm rips through me.

  It only takes a few more hard thrusts and Brad grunts behind me, spilling his release into the condom I know he slipped on before entering me. He always makes sure to cover his tracks.

  And this is when the shame comes back, the sick feeling that tells me that I am one fucked up individual. How anyone could enjoy this type of abuse is beyond me, and yet I not only enjoy it, I get off every single time.

  It eats at me that not only do I let this man have his way with my body, but that my body betrays me by letting him pleasure it. Sure, Brad is only thirteen years older than me and, honestly, not that bad looking when he cleans himself up, but I should be disgusted that instead of fucking my mother, he’s fucking me.

  I try to pretend like I am. Like I hate what he’s doing to me. But it’s an act. An act I put on for myself so I don’t have to face what kind of person that makes me.

  “Damn, I might need to go another round tonight.” Brad slides out, disposes of the condom, and before I can even think to move is positioned behind me again. “You’d like that too wouldn’t you, dirty girl.” He slides his still hard erect
ion down my butt crack and then sinks back inside me again, my body instantly humming to life once more.

  I shoot up, gasping for air, my mind a blur of memories that I can’t seem to force down. I barely make it off the couch and to the bathroom in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

  I close my eyes and I feel him behind me, pushing inside of me. I heave again, tears boiling to the surface as I choke on my own sob.

  I know what happened to me was wrong and that it wasn’t my fault, but when I remember specific things about the abuse I can’t help but feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of my own shame.

  After moving here, I knew I needed to get my head in the right space. I started seeing a therapist not long after Jack was born. The postpartum made my past even harder to swallow, and I had a really hard time for a while.

  Eventually, my therapist started making me see that my reaction to the sexual abuse by two of my mom’s boyfriends and the physical abuse from Blake was just my way of coping with what was happening. I didn’t know what else to do, so I trained myself to endure it and even enjoy it. I also learned that this is actually a pretty common response to abuse.

  I made my peace with what happened to me a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still haunt me. It does. More than I care to admit. I just wish there was a way to keep the memories at bay. Reliving them, especially in the form of a very vivid dream, feels like I’m back there all over again.

  Turning, I flush the toilet before sliding down onto my backside. Pressing my back to the side of the tub, I try to pull myself from this sleep-induced panic I seem to be caught under.

  I hear a light knock at the door followed by the sound of Anthony’s groggy voice. “Bree, you okay?” I can hear the concern in his voice, and for whatever reason, that seems to be the unraveling of the final thread holding me in place.

  The tears fall heavier, and the knot in my stomach coils so tightly I have to pull my knees to my chest in an effort to ease the pain coursing through me.