I’ll kill you.”
He said this in my ear as his hands roved over my body. A fucking waste.” The waste of the body was firm, petite, and supple. Didn’t fight him. I know, because he’d whisper it was my fault as he rammed into me. When I got home that night I felt exhausted. I hated my body. My mom would just sit there while he said I was worthless, how I never did anything around the house, how lucky I was that he was supporting us. He was there. I went out into the kitchen and found no breakfast, or mom. I stood there confused until I whirled around at the sound of his voice. I know, because he’d whisper it was my fault as he rammed into me. I didn’t struggle. No. I’d wake up early, take the bus, go to school, go to soccer, go to ballet on the weekends, anything to keep my out of that house.
