Quiet

P.P.S:Due to certain comments I have received after writing this post, I find it a compulsion to put this up. This story is purely and completely fiction and has no resemblance to me or my personal life.

Those eyes reminded me of a lot many things. The gaze reminded me of the way he peeped deep into my eyes on that day. His hands reminded me of his touch on my breasts. His evil smile reminded me of the taste I felt when his lips fought with mine. The feeling I had when his tongue explored the inside of my mouth. The pain I felt when he pressed me all over with his hands.

He was my father. The person without whom my birth wouldn’t have been possible. Without whom I would still be waiting to be brought to life. Was this how I was born? Did my mother experience the same pain before I was born? Or was it a mutual feeling called love they had for each other which resulted in my birth? I don’t know. But I wish I knew.

Though it has been nearly four years since that dreaded day, I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sick. My mother asked me to stay at home and take rest. And so I did, since I never went against what my parents asked me to do. My mother worked at the bank, and she couldn’t take the day off. And so she left, since my father said he would take the day off and look after me. Little did she know how he would look after me.

I had a sore throat and was having a tough time to sleep, when I heard my father come into my room and close the door. He smiled at me, a smile I never received from him before. But he was my father, and I returned the smile.

“Are you fine my dear?” he asked.

“My throat is a bit rough. Other than that I am feeling a lot better”, I said.

“Don’t worry dear, I will make you feel a lot better now” was the last few words I heard from him.

And then everything turned black. The feeling of pain, betrayal, sorrow all united together is a bit too much to handle. And I never spoke to him ever again. I cried. I cried in the afternoon, I cried when my mother returned home, I cried to sleep. I didn’t know what else to do. I was just seven. An age when fathers are your hero. A phase when the person you look up to and wish to follow is your father.

But I never told my mother anything. What should I tell her? Should I tell her that I was raped by my father? Or should I tell her that the person whom she married and loved was a cheat? And that he had used his very own daughter to satisfy his dirty pleasures? It was enough that I suffered. I didn’t want my mother to suffer as well. And so I kept quiet. I have still remained quiet.

P.S:I have realized that I do not know how to find apt photos from Google :(.