His head swiveled to look at me. “You look so much like her,” he whispered. His eyes, which had been clean of any sign of tears, returned to almost-crying. It was my mother’s funeral and my second cousin’s sister’s mother-in-law was crying harder than I was. Even the dogs howled their mourning, sniffing forlornly at the edges of the sinking casket as it was lowered into the earth. It was cold at the funeral. The leaves dropped like dead flies. A few landed on her coffin. It suddenly looked like Halloween: orange leaves laid against a dark wooden box. My father stood silent beside me. His eyes were red-rimmed, yet I had never seen him cry. He had been in this state of almost-crying for a week now. Good for him; I hadn’t shed a tear, and my eyes were nowhere near red. No, not even pink.

My mother’s arms were sprawled on the bed as if broken. Her head was tilted to one side. Her eyes were shut. She was dying. She looked like she had just fallen asleep. His breathing stopped completely, and he froze. I guess for him it was awkward. I had never been an affectionate daughter. I had never hugged him like this. Or maybe it just reminded him too much of my mother. Not nothing. Never nothing. What would you want me to have said?” My voice was louder. It was growing, feeding off of what it found inside me. Whatever it could grasp. “It only makes sense. It only –”

I thought it meant that I was special. I didn't know it would turn sex into an act of shame.

Even at home with my mother, I would crawl into her bed to sleep at night. Meanwhile, at Dad's house, the abuse continued. I'd go to sleep, genuinely fall asleep, and he'd get in bed. I'd wake up and feel his warm skin, his erection against my bottom, his breathing in my ear, the slight scent of Budweiser on his breath. One afternoon, there was a spanking after a sexual encounter and the link between sex and shame became permanent in my brain. I believed that I had let the sex happen, and that it was my fault; I believed that I was the bad one. Around the same time, I initiated a phone sex relationship with Mr. Bernard, the neighborhood "perv." He lived alone; he was normal looking, maybe 60 years old. I don't know how we kids knew he was a "perv" -- it was just common knowledge, information passed along, as many things were, by the older, wiser sisters of my peers. My friend Kathy's parents used to tell us, "Oh, leave him alone, he's just an old alcoholic man." But the wisdom of the sisters reigned supreme. At slumber parties, we would crank call him and scream "You're a perv!" into the phone. "We know what you do to little girls," we'd taunt, and then hang up.

I felt tears in my eyes as he pulled away. I didn’t know why I was crying so soon after I had stopped. I tried my best to conceal it. I sniffed as quietly as I could. I pressed my face into the pillow.My father drew a deep breath. “I’m sure your mother appreciated it. She loved the way they looked on you.” I was fine. I didn’t hurt. But my mother’s blood ebbed and flowed out of her, like water spilling from a broken dam.

I didn't need him anymore. I had developed something of a relationship with a real boy, Jeff, a kid in the new neighborhood. Jeff would beg me to let him kiss and touch me, and I would tell him no. That expression of my power made me feel great. Here someone was sexually focused on me, which made me feel alive. But at the same time, I was able to prove to myself that I wasn't an awful person because I didn't let him do things to me. As an added bonus, I had the opportunity to reject unwanted sexual advances, something I was never able to do with Dad. What – what are you saying, sweetheart?” My father was confused, surprised. He had been angry then called me sweetheart. I saw him flinch: he was also hurt. I couldn’t blame him; I was, too. I was all the things my father was. But I had started, and it was too late to stop now. My father wanted – needed – an explanation. Her last words to me, “I don’t want you to see me do it.” And mine to her, nothing. A kiss, I figured – a fragile kiss said more. I could hardly wait for him to reach into my panties and give me that tingling feeling. I didn't know then that I was having orgasms; it would be years before I learned that word, and even longer before I admitted to myself that what I experienced was orgasm. But sometimes the incest felt good -- that special feeling, all that attention and love and affection from my nice daddy. And he was, in my young mind, my nice daddy; he hugged me and put Band-Aids on my skinned knees and sang Sinatra songs to me.I tried to comfort him. I pulled myself next to him, lay my head on his shoulder, and curled my arm across his stomach, the way my mother used to hug him. His belly was soft and fleshy. He had just eaten but it felt like his stomach was empty. I gripped my umbrella tightly, studying my dark gloves, shimmering in places where the pale sunlight hit them. I had no other gloves. The ones I was wearing were for dinner parties. They were itchy and I couldn’t wait to take them off. I didn’t miss her. I wasn’t sad. All I could feel was a bland acceptance. To be honest, I hardly knew her. All I was sure of was that she loved to talk, and she would never shut up. On long drives, she would keep rambling on and on in the car, not knowing that everyone else had fallen asleep. She’d never notice. orphan_account Fandoms: Father/Daughter - Fandom, Incest - Fandom, Family Sex - Fandom, Young Love - Fandom, Older Man/Younger Girl - Fandom

I was in my room. A picture of my mother was in my hands, and a scene was forming in my head. A bright and blinding scene that made my eyes tear and burn.

I didn’t wonder where we were going. I didn’t ask this time, because I knew. It was always the same place: “Asias.” My mother told me, though I didn’t need to know. “Asias Hotel – same place as always, dear.” My arms were moving. They wrapped themselves across my chest. I felt my cold hands digging into my shoulders. I had no control over my limbs. It felt like my body knew I needed comfort, and was compensating for its absence. I could hear my father breathing. He was awake. His breaths were irregular: sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes not there at all. I knew he was still thinking about her. For him, it would be hard to forget. It would be hard to fall asleep. Eventually my parents separated, meaning I spent two nights a week at my father's house. Those nights, I stayed in his bed with him, all night long. Somehow, the lie he'd told my mother to explain why I was often in their bed when she came home from work -- that I was too scared to sleep alone -- became truth. I don't know if I was truly scared or if I simply came to believe I was, but I rarely spent a night in bed by myself until I was 13 years old.