Diaries of a Nine-year Old

"You're a grown up woman. I can make you happy too now, Sweetie."

"Stop..." I sobbed quietly.

"It'll hurt at first, I promise I'll be gentle, but you'll have to be quiet, ok sweetheart?"

"Please…" I hit both sides of my head with the base of my palms, my fingers curled to the inside.

"You're my little angel; I promise I wouldn't hurt you."

"I believed you, you liar…" I surrendered to the floor. "Why?" I whispered, "Why…" I fell into numbness, the floor becoming my only comfort ….

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14th of March, 1995

Dear Diary,

Mom is still the same, nothing's changed about her. She's getting too messy now though, as much as I try she still upsets Dad. Dad hit her yesterday; she was yelling too much, she deserved it. I don’t feel sympathy for her anymore, no matter how much she cries. I love her still, she's my Mom. I just wish she could actually be my Mom. I think she hates me now, Dad says she's only jealous of me. He drinks more often too, last night, he was rough on me. It hurt a lot and he was saying a lot of mean things to me. I was bleeding and then I started crying, he told me to shut up. I know he didn’t mean those things. He loves me, he wouldn't. I blame her. I hate her; she ruins everything. I have to go make dinner for Dad.

Bye.

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I'd read enough, I was still lying down on my side, my cheek touching the floor, the book idled in front of my face, my hand resting on it numbly. I slid my fingers under the book and pulled it shut. My eyes rested, my heaving breath slowed down, and my fingers coiled relaxing into my palm.

I'd lay there for minutes, but I don't allow myself to fall asleep. It would be just a few more hours, wasted on just another nightmare to remind me of everything that happened before twelve years ago. Twelve years of secrets, regrets, pain, fear, nightmares, and the haunting guilt.

"Mimi..."

That voice always brought me down from wherever I was, but I was already there; rock-bottom, how much further down could it take me?

I pulled myself off the floor, turned around, and looked at the pictures sprawled on my bed.

"I'm sorry…" I whispered. Was I heard?

I walked away from them and into the bathroom. I opened the cabinet over the sink avoiding my reflection. The brown bottles where too many, but all the same, sleeping pills. I grabbed one randomly, took out 3 pills, and swallowed. I didn’t even bother to close the cabinet. I didn’t want to look at myself; I didn’t want to feel sorry for myself, I didn’t deserve it. I set one foot inside the bathtub followed by the other; I sat down and embraced my legs to my chest rocking myself back and forth. I'd take myself back to memory one more time...

I'm thirteen-years old. We would make love everyday now; it had become an addiction for me. My Mom was too drunk to notice. I was more aware of what I was doing now, more conscious of the mistake. His love for me was what stopped me, his need for me; I needed him to need me.

He was on top of me, my legs wrapped around him, he'd thrust himself into me, I'd moan, and he'd reply. His pace got faster, I followed. His breathing got heavier; I moaned louder. He breathes out my name; I tell him I love him, but he doesn’t say it back. He groans in pain, I tell him I love him again. He doesn’t say it back.

That was when the door flung open, Mom bursting through it with a drink in one hand. Dad looked scared, I wasn't.

"I knew you were fucking some whore!" she spat out her words spitefully. He froze motionless on top of me. "You've got some nerve! In my own house?" she tried to move away from the door, but she was too dizzy; she went back. He didn’t move hoping that she would leave before she knew who I was.

"Oh don’t stop on my expense! By all means, continue!" she let out sarcastically. I grew less patient.

"Tell me David, is this whore worth it?" He noticed my expression. His face pleaded, but I'd lost my patience for her. I pushed him off of me.
"Why don’t you just go back to drinking you useless bitch?" she looked like I'd slapped her.