At Daddy’s Hands

by Jacob Paul Patchen

  “Jim!” Mom’s eyes darted back and forth from me to Dad as if I had never watched TV before.

  Dad gathered himself, “Look, I just want it cleaned up, and I want to sit down and relax. Is that too much to ask for? Is it?” He placed his shoes neatly together and tossed the dirty rag on a small muddy footprint.

  “Go ahead, get it started.” He was staring at me, and I could feel the tears start to build.

  “Daaad, pleeease…I didn’t do iiit.” I begged.

  “I’ve had about enough of this,” he said to Mom as he loosened his tie and then his belt, wrapping it once around his hand, grasping the buckle.

  “Jim! Jim!” The echo of Mom’s voice rang out as he started in my direction.

  My eyes practically popped out of my head as he marched his heavy feet toward me like he was on some sort of mission, or something. He grabbed me up, knelt down right in front of the steps, pulled my pants down, and lit my ass on fire. That was the first time he ever spanked me.

  . . . . .

  I could hear Mom and Dad still arguing while I sobbed on my bed. Puffy-eyed and snotty, and exhausted from raging out on my sheets and pillows, that were now mostly on the floor, I listened to their raised voices fighting back and forth. It lasted for a tense twenty minutes until I heard the stomping up the steps, the slam of their bedroom door, and the clink of ice cubes in a whiskey glass.

  I must have fallen asleep, because my room was an eerie shade of black, except for the moonlight pushing through the window. Something woke me up. Some noise, perhaps. Or maybe just the feeling of being watched. Whatever it was, I wish it hadn’t.

  I laid there tangled in what was left of my sheets, listening. Through the distant outside hum of the freeway and the murmur of the downstairs TV, I thought I could hear breathing. Deep, shaky, drawn-out breathing. The type of breathing Mom would make while she was going through her school loan finances after chasing her dream to become a writer, one she mostly gave up when she discovered the percs. It was the same kind of breathing that Ms. Spurlock would do while she was grading our fourth-grade spelling tests. But this wasn’t Mom’s breathing… and it wasn’t Ms. Spurlock’s breathing. No. No, it was Dad’s foul air.

  Did he come up to apologize for hurting me? I wondered. Is he going to tell me that he loves me and will never hurt me again? Or is he here to beat me some more? I could hear the ice against his glass as he raised it up to his lips and slurped a large gulp. My eyes started to adjust and make out the tall, dark form leaning against the door frame. I peered through the darkness, trying to understand if what I was seeing was real. The wind blew in from the cracked-open window and pulled the curtains back to let the moonlight reveal his face. There was a deadness in his eyes. Evil, demon, dark, deadness. The burning of his stare made me squeeze my eyes shut and wish him away.

  But he didn’t leave. Instead, he walked closer, and closer, setting his glass on my nightstand after slurping the last of his whiskey. I could smell it on his breath. It was a heavy sour, a stale scent of bad decisions, wreaking of lies and delusions. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, hoping that when I opened them, it would be morning. I squeezed tightly and grimaced, trying to escape through my mind. I counted slowly to ten. One. Two. Three. Four. The breathing was at my ear. Five. Six. I could feel his wind hot on my cheek. Seven. Eight. Nine…

  His large, bourboned hand slid across my mouth. He squeezed with more strength than I have ever felt in his touch. My eyes shot open with panic. His midnight eyes were staring right back at mine. I tried to scream. But he pressed harder, turning my lips numb and tingly. My breath was forced through my nose and loud against his hand.

  “Don’t. Make. A sound.” He growled, unbuckling his belt with one hand.

  He let his trousers fall to the floor. Their soft thud etching its way into my memory, just like the shake of his foot and rattle of his belt as he kicked his pants aside. They carved their sound waves onto the nerve endings of my darkest fears, my most painful horrors. His nails scratched the small of my back, leaving a hot, red trail as he ripped down my pants. Then, my bed springs groaned and creaked as his weight pressed and smothered me.

  I tried to scream. I tried to make some kind of noise, any kind of noise. But my throat was dry, and my voice was lost in the confusion and horror of trying to understand what my father was getting ready to do to me. Instead, I forced my eyes shut, focusing on the black, on those little blotches of light, those small spots floating behind my eyelids, careless, unaware of what monster was just on the other side as I grabbed fists-full of sheets… and choked the softness right out of them.

  . . . . .

  Pain. Lots of pain. That’s what I remember when I told Jessica about what had happened, and she didn’t believe me. Gut wrenching pain and disappointment when she stopped coming over. Confusion. Anger. Hatred… guilt. Guilty. I felt guilty for ruining our friendship. I felt dirty, unwanted, like a broken barbie left outside, missing a limb and all of her clothes. I felt wrong. I felt like I did something wrong. Like, if I would have just been a better daughter… if I would have just listened and did what I was told. If I would have just been… better, then none of this would have happened. None of this would have happened.

  Then, fear. I felt absolute terror the day I stayed after class to try and talk to Ms. Spurlock.

  “Can I help you?” She looked up after all the children had gathered their notebooks and bookbags, and exited her room in an excited rumble of what are you doing tonights and do you want to come overs.

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I… can I ask you something?”

  She tossed her red grading pen, adjusted her thick glasses, and let out a lengthy annoyed huff.

  “Sure. But make it quick. You don’t want to miss the bus.”

  I shifted closer to her desk, awkward and shy. I had no idea what to say. I was clueless about how to talk about… rape.

  “Well… you know my dad, right?” I started, blindly.

  “Jim? Yeah, who doesn’t know the famous Jim Handler? The detective that solved the Will’s Creek Massacre case? Your father is a bit of a hero around here.”

  “Yeaaah… well, what if… what would happen… I mean…”

  “Come on, out with it. We don’t have all day.” She pushed, tapping her papers into a neat stack on her desk.

  With my hands cradling my books and looking at the pieces of an eraser on the floor beside Billy’s desk, I searched for the right words to say.

  “What if he… hurt someone?” I wasn’t sure if that was what I wanted to say or not. But that’s what came out when I spoke.

  “What do you mean, hurt someone? Like, a criminal? Well, just between you and me, I hope he hurts them all.” She was already annoyed and back shifting through her stack of quizzes.

  “No. No, that’s not what I mean. What if… what if he hurt… me?”

  She stopped what she was doing and looked me up and down.

  “You don’t look hurt.”

  “Well, I am.”

  She removed her glasses, leaned back in her swivel chair, and stuck one end just between her lips.

  “What are you trying to say, Ally? Just come out and say it, you’re going to miss the bus.”

  “Dad… Dad… he…”

  She was so obviously annoyed with my inability to shout out that my father has been raping me a few times a week. I mean, how are you even supposed to get help? How do you start a conversation like that? What are you supposed to say? Hey, good afternoon. I thought that quiz was extra easy today. Oh, by the way, my dad puts his dick in my vagina. You know… it’s hard enough to talk to yourself about it. To come to terms with it. To try to rationalize it. To understand it. To convince your mind to not g
o insane from that kind of abuse… well, that’s torture enough. I just didn’t know how to talk to someone about it. I felt ashamed. I felt dirty. I felt wrong.

  Then she let me have it. A gut punch on a full stomach. I nearly hurled.

  “He’s a hero, Ally. He’s a smart man and a major contributor to not only this school but to the community, too. You should be proud of him. He’s got so much on his mind with the type of important work that he does. You’d be best if you were just a good little girl and tried not to cause him any problems. He was there when my husband died, you know. I don’t like to talk about it, especially with students. But, he spent all night there at the hospital after my husband’s wreck. He was there beside us when he finally let go and passed on. It takes a special kind of man with a special kind of heart to do something like that.”

  Ms. Spurlock’s patience was running thin. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, swallowing down the tears and then cleared her throat.

  Ally,” she said softly, “is this about Jessica? I’ve noticed you two haven’t been talking as much, lately. You know, these sorts of things happen with friends. Sometimes, you just outgrow each other. But you’ll find other friends. You’re a beautiful young girl. I mean look at those freckles! You won’t have any trouble finding other friends.”

  My body was shaking with anger, with fear and frustration. She wouldn’t even listen to me. She had no idea that her hero had been molesting his own daughter for months. I couldn’t stand to look at her stupid face any longer.

  “Thanks.” I forced and hurried for the bus.

  . . . . .

  Yeah, it really ate at me for a long time. It was… hard. Like, I just didn’t understand why he was doing that to me and why nobody would listen. I still don’t. But whatever. Eventually, I just got over it. I just… let it sink to the bottom of me. Besides, I had other things to worry about anyway, like school, art, and well… boys. I mean, he moved on to Nikki, and honestly, I missed his attention. I missed having my dad pay attention to me. You know, spend time with me… love me.

  But, anyway, middle school was hell. Jim would take his frustrations out on me in the middle of the night, and I would take my frustrations out on everyone else. I’d take them out on me. I mean, look at my arms… look. This is what happens when you blame yourself. This is what I did to myself. And that’s how I remember my early teens. There’s really not much more to say about it. I was sexually abused by my father, and that’s just something that I learned to live with.

  Things are “better” now. I have a boyfriend, Brian, who I’m pretty sure only started liking me because he heard that I put out. It was a nasty rumor from the popular bitches that would get off on causing people like me pain. But if we’re being honest, it’s a rumor that’s truer than I’d like for it to be. But, hey… it is what it is, right? Either way, I led Brian around on a leash for a few weeks, acting unimpressed with his flowers, notes and Little Debbie snacks at lunch, before I let him stick his hands down my pants. After all, a girl’s got power in the pop of her curves. Truth is, I actually really like him. I think that’s healthy, right? I mean, I might even… love him. He’s basically all I have, to be honest. He… he just accepts me for who I am. He likes me because I am me.

  I figured it was Jessica and her skank club that probably told him about the marks on my arms when we first started dating. Those bitches were always jealous that the star running back on our football team was more into someone like me than their peacock faces and push-up bras.

  The day I showed him those scars, was the day that I started falling for him.

  “What’s that?” Brian asked when he first saw them.

  I was embarrassed and tried to cover them up, even though I wanted him to see them, I wanted him to know my sickness. Instead, I just turned away and tugged at my sleeve.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. Just… never mind.”

  He put his arms around me from behind and kissed my shoulder. He always knew how to love me, even from the beginning, and even though I had no idea how to love him back.

  “Babe, I’m sorry. I had no idea… I…” He just held me and kissed me. He didn’t need to say anything. I didn’t need to say anything… but I wanted to tell him everything.

  Eventually, I would. I would tell him every little detail, and he would rage out, even threaten to kill my father. Hearing the passion in his voice, the rage, the emotions firing off like the Fourth of July in his eyes, it made me believe him. I should’ve told him no. I should have saved him from the black eyes and broken nose that Dad served him when he tried to “man up.” But the truth is, I kind of wanted him to win. Poor Brian and his big stupid heart, he still tries to convince me that “your scars are like your freckles, they just make you special.” Bullshit.

  The first time I tried cutting myself, all I left was just a scratch. I should have been in my seventh-grade science class, but overhearing Jessica’s new best friend Becca making jokes about my black eye shadow and nails, made me want to escape, escape from… everything. I wanted to escape from school, from Byesville, from Ohio, from here… from this body, from that little girl cuffed to a bed and caged inside of my head… I used a purple mechanical pencil to dig into my forearm in the last bathroom stall, right beside the “call Ally for a good time” graffiti and just a few feet away from the guidance counselor’s office.

  Hmm. Brian… poor, hopeless, romantic, Brian. He thinks that I should just run away with him. Like that’s going to solve everything. You know, I pity him with all of his feelings and emotions. He thinks we should steal my dad’s wallet, truck, and gun. You know, do a real Bonnie and Clyde thing. Run off together, just me and him… robbing banks, or gas stations… maybe even head down to Florida… or maybe California. A place where no one will know us. A place where we can be anybody we want to be, where we can do anything we want to do. Somewhere warm and sunny. Somewhere happy.

  He thinks we should run away. Maybe we will.

  I wonder what these scars will look like with a nice, golden tan.

  Four.

  Tyler

  2017, December

  I love this stupid chair.

  Alright, well, you know, football’s pretty much my life. I switched to receiver this year. Did you happen to see my winning touchdown catch against Cambridge? Oh, man… it was glorious. You should have seen the girls lining up to get my number. I was like a rockstar, getting more ass than a toilet seat. You know what I mean? Wait, sorry, can I say that here? You said not to hold back. That this was a place to express myself. You told me to say whatever comes to mind, as long as it’s honest and on topic. Right?

  Alright. Well, anyway, Coach thinks there’ll be scouts in the stands next year. Maybe a scholarship or two will be thrown my way. I guess all that extra time in the weight room is paying off. I even have a path cut into the hill at my house from doing hill sprints in my eighth-grade championship cleats. They’re a little worn out now, though. There’s a hole starting to break through, just underneath the Under Armour symbol on the right one. That won’t stop me though. I forget what football movie it was, but after I saw them run the hill, I figured, what the heck… I’ll give it a try. I used dad’s weed eater to clear the tall grass last summer, and it wasn’t long before I had a dirt path worn up and down it. Did I mention that I can do 58 pushups in a row? That’s the third highest on the team. Chase can only do 43. You can definitely tell a difference between his pecs and mine in the shower.

  Damn. The shower. Ours doesn’t even have a door anymore. Well, I mean… there’s a curtain on the shower, but dad removed the bathroom door and nailed up a sheet, instead. He made us all stand there and watch as he removed the door from the hinges, pulled a sheet from the linen closet in the hallway, flung it open furiously, and hammered thr
ee nails into it. Mom said that we needed our privacy, but he insisted that it was a safety issue. He didn’t trust us around the cleaning supplies after Ally ended up in the hospital.

  I’d catch him outside the door every now and then, leaning against the door frame to his room, pretending to read one of his cop magazines, his faint shadow through the sheet turning the page, lifting his head often. I knew what he was doing, he did it to all of us. I mean, it’s not that big of a deal. Yeah, he sees us naked, so what? He used to change our diapers. Besides, Ally’s been walking around the house topless. Yeah, sure, you forgot to bring your clothes into the bathroom, again. I just think she’s mental and a real attention seeker. She’s been over the top ever since… well… ever since Dad has been more focused on Nikki.

  She’s kind of a bitch, actually. She always has this poor attitude. Like, the other day, when all of a sudden, she made such a big deal out of me running into the bathroom to grab my deodorant while she was in the shower. Like, who cares? Yeah… okay, sometimes I watch her shower. But what’s the big deal? Dad does it. She doesn’t throw a fit over that! Then she had to go and tell him all about it like I was some sort of criminal or something.

  Dad was like, “What are you doing? Stop watching your sister shower.” He said it just like he would when talking to Special Agent Gibbs on TV after two or three trips to the whiskey cabinet.

  I laughed it off. “They’re just boobs, Dad. Well, sort of.” I turned and laughed at her. “It’s not a big deal.”

  She growled and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re such an asshole! Just leave me alone!” Then, she stomped upstairs to pout in her room.

  Dad raised his wet whiskey glass and took a deep drag. His eyes never left the TV as his arm casually fell back into his lap. I waited there a second or two, thinking he might say something else. But he didn’t. He just clicked the volume up twice and set the remote on the coffee table.