I hate the way Uncle Touchy looks at me. I hate the way his breath smells, like stale pilsner wrapped in dog shit. I hate how he always tells me that I'm his favourite niece, like it’s something to be proud of. I hate the way he tries to claim me, and I hate the way I force my lips into a smile when he says, “You know, you get those beauty marks from our side of the family.” I want to cut them from my skin. I'll erase them someday when I’m old enough.
I hate when he and dad start talking again, and he comes over unannounced, always half-cut and in the late hours. I hate that prized fucking Landcruiser he parks in the driveway. It’s his baby. I’d smash the windows if I could. I like to wreck things that people like just to show them not to fuck with me.
The two of them drink until daddy passes out. I feel my heartbeat quicken as his clumsy footsteps approach my door. I flatten myself under the covers. I hear the door creak open and from a hole in the covers, I watch as light briefly seeps in before giving way to darkness again. I hold my breath. I smell that ragged dog-shit breath and feel him standing over me.
“Melissa, wake up," he half commands, half pleads, the way weak men do.
I pretend to be asleep. He pulls the covers off and kneels beside my bed. I can sense he wants to climb in. But before he can do anything else, I sit up. In an exaggerated loud voice, I tell him I'm tired and want to sleep. That's when he starts the drunken cloying. That thing pitiful men do. He tells me how I’m so so smart and so so special and so so sweet and so so grown up for my age. In that moment, I wish I wasn’t anything at all. If this is what being 'special' amounts to, I don't want it.
I want to tell him I know who he is. That I know what he's done. But I don't.
Your own daughters, you fucker.
And then comes the part I hate the most. I hate remembering that something was taken from me, too. I did so good at blocking it out, because I was only three and four, and there was one time I think I was asleep and that's probably a blessing but it doesn't matter because I still get an uneasy feeling around men and I'll never really get back that sense of safety, you know? I hate that I can't prove that ir happened to me, but I know. Deep down, I know.
I hate the powerlessness of it all.
But this time, I'm eleven, and I’m awake now. I make myself bigger than I am. I let my voice get loud, even though I was taught to keep it quiet. I get so loud my dad wakes up and tells him to get out.
We don’t talk about it again. I'll bury it for years.
Someday, when I'm grown, I'll actually do it though. I won't wait for someone to protect me. I'll scream. I'll tell him I know. I'll push him out. I'll save myself.
I'll do that for me. I'll do that for every girl.