“Then why are you wearing perfume?”
My heart drops. “People were spraying stuff at the mall,” I say a bit too quickly. “They always hand out samples.”
He laughs; it’s a mean and ugly sound. I want to cover my ears.
“That fancy perfume, huh? Smellin’ like some little rich bitch.”
I don’t respond. I barely even breathe. It’s too late, though, and I know it.
“Why were you at the mall?”
“It’s my eighteenth birthday.”
He snorts. “Eighteen, huh? Think you’re a grown woman now? Think you can go strutting around? Doing whatever you want?”
Silence is safer, but even silence can’t save you when he’s made up his mind.
“You know what they say about little rich bitches?” He steps closer to me.
The glint in his eyes makes me want to run.
“Answer me.” His rough hand closes around my neck and pulls me against him. His greasy brown hair falling forward.
“N-No, sir.” I can’t help the stutter.
But that just cost me. Every muscle in my body tenses, preparing for the blows, the beating I’ll have to endure. My heart beats so hard I think it’s trying to escape from my chest.
If only I were so lucky.
His smile, slow and dark, spreads over his face. He lowers his face to mine. “Little rich bitches are good little girls for their daddies.”
He drags me into the living room, throwing me on the floor. I fall back on my hands, the carpet rough against my palms. I look over at my mom, lying on the couch with a needle in her arm. Her eyes are glazed over like glass windows, and no one’s home.
I look up at him as he rubs his hand over the bulge in his jeans.
“Areyougoing to be a good little girl for your daddy?” He chuckles as he curls his fingers in my hair and draws me up onto my knees, my scalp burning in protest.
“C’mon now,” he whispers as he undoes his pants, “make Mama proud.” He glances at the couch.
My mom still hasn’t moved. I’m not even sure she’s breathing. I watch as she blinks slowly. He pulls himself out as he keeps his grip on my hair. Hot tears roll down my cheeks.
“Please, don’t do this,” I whimper.
“Beg again.” He sneers.
I shake my head, clenching my jaw.
This can’t be happening.
“Open your mouth and take it. Or else Mommy gets a beating.”
My mind races. There’s no way out. I’m stuck. I can’t let him hurt her.
My lips part slightly and he shoves himself between my lips. Pushing to the back of my throat, and I gag. He groans. My hands tremble as I try to push against his thighs, but his hips jerk me closer, his grip on my hair tightening even more.
“You bite and you die.”
I cry out, and he pushes himself deeper. Even with my eyes shut I can still see the flickering lights of the TV, canned laughter to a sitcom I will never know. He continues thrusting into my mouth as I struggle to breathe through my tears.
