Author's Note: If you're the type of reader who won't tolerate anything less than a happy ending, then allow me to offer my apologies in advance and save you the trouble of searching for one in this story, because you won't find it here. My goal is to offer an alternative to the notion that "everything is fine," and to venture beyond idealistic fairytales in order to create characters who are three-dimensional, flawed, and have some basis in reality. "Happily ever after" will probably never have a place in any of my work, because it doesn't have a place in the real world. I'm not interested in writing children's books with zesty language and adult situations thrown in for good measure; I'm interested in taking pieces of everyday life and weaving them together for you to observe, no matter how ugly, twisted, or scarred. I hope all of you are able to appreciate what I'm trying to do here, and that it won't become necessary for me to have all of my characters skip off into the sunset in order for me to gain your approval. With that said, I hope you enjoy your read.
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I have always loved my father. In grade school I created a thousand finger-paintings in his image and wore many of my crayons down to nothing in an attempt to commit the beauty of his likeness to the dull pieces of my construction paper. He fit into my childhood fantasies with ease, because he was perfect in every way. His career as a senior partner at a prestigious law firm commanded the respect and adulation of his peers, and afforded him the financial freedom to spoil me rotten. My room was filled with toys from floor to ceiling, and there were three walk-in closets dedicated to storing my countless wardrobes, about a dozen for every season. As his only child and main woman in his life since my mother's passing, I was the sole beneficiary of his time and affection, and relished every second that he was able steal away from his office so that he could be there to wake me up in the morning and to tuck me back in at night.
In the summer he would overlook my bedtime so that we could stay up and watch the stars, him rocking gently in the porch swing with me in his lap. I would spend about an hour listening intently to the sound of my father's voice as he gave a name to the constellations that swam in the inky darkness above us, until the rhythmic beating of his heart and the warmth of his embrace lulled me to a peaceful sleep. It wasn't until my twelfth birthday that I began to notice how hard his sculpted muscles felt against the softness of my developing bosom, and how kissable his moist lips looked in the moonlight. As time wore on and the onset of puberty cleared away the remnants of my childhood and replaced it with a burgeoning adolescence, I knew that I loved my father more than I should. He was the color of rich honey in the spring, and a shade of pale wheat in the fall. His green eyes favored the calm waters of the sea, and his closely cropped jet-black curls were soft to the touch. Standing at 6'2' he was a sight to behold, his model good looks evoking a sense of longing in every woman that he came across. I was no exception, and fell victim to his deadly appeal.
The innocence with which I had daydreamed about my father as a child was lost to me as a young adult, and the lustful fantasies that lived in the confines of my mind filled me with such a deep sense of shame that I could hardly stand to look my father in the eyes. Whenever my thoughts were allowed the freedom to roam they always returned to him, his beautiful face and muscular body permanent fixtures in the dark space behind my closed eyelids. Each time I unwillingly imagined him touching me as a lover would, I'd silently curse myself and pray that no one had seen the sorrowful look on my face as I hastily wiped away a stream of tears. "Leave me alone," I'd whimper, hoping that the racy images of him moving deep within me would dissipate at the earnestness of my command, but was only more tortured by the fact that I could no longer convince the palpable material of my conscious thoughts to bend to my will. Unlike most people whose desire brought them nearer to the ones they longed for, my desire for my father pushed me further away from him until he nearly ceased to exist outside of my wayward imagination.
My father's busy schedule allowed me to avoid him with little effort, and on the rare occasion that he was able to reach me before I disappeared into the solitude of my bedroom, I was panic-stricken and anxious. He would draw me into a discussion about the day's events and encourage me to share details of my own before encircling me in his arms and kissing me hello, goodbye or goodnight. If he ever noticed how my body shrank away from his touch or how my voice caught in my throat as I stammered out an excuse to get away, he never mentioned it. Sometimes I thought I saw pain registering in his eyes whenever I broke free of his embrace in favor of spending my time alone, but I could never stare into their beautiful sea-colored depths long enough to be sure. Instead I would dart away as quickly as my feet would carry me before locking myself inside my spacious bedroom, knowing all the while that even though I had closed my door to him, he would be there waiting for me in my dreams.
On the eve of my eighteenth birthday I sat alone in our garden, the sweet aroma of freesia and lilac perfuming the crisp night air. I grabbed a fistful of soil and let it sift through my fingers as I began thinking of ways to kill myself. I plucked a rose from its bush and laid flat on my back, my soft hair spreading out in a fan around me.
"What's the best way to die?" I asked the rose, examining it in the moonlight.
"I could steal daddy's gun and shoot myself in the head, but that would be too messy." I said, turning the flower's stem gently between my thumb and forefinger.
"I could take sleeping pills and chase it with a bottle of liquor, but then I might live," I sighed, fondling the rose's soft petals. My thoughts suddenly turned to my father, and how broken he would be when he discovered my lifeless form. My vision became blurred with tears and I looked away from the single rose in shame, as if the beautiful flower were capable of recrimination
"You might think I'm being cruel little rose, but you don't know how much I suffer. In my head he's my father, but in my heart he's a man, and I'm afraid those two parts of me will never agree. I fantasize about him everyday, and I dream of him every night. I ache for him, and it drives me to do things to myself...to touch myself in places..." I drifted off for a moment, reliving the many nights I had spent pleasuring myself to my father's image.
"But then I remember his piggy back rides and the way he used to sing to me when I was sick, and I'm ripped apart by guilt. He loves me with every fiber of his being, but it still isn't enough. I want more from him, and I would sacrifice all that we've ever meant to each other just to get it. I'm a monster," I sobbed, my tears falling softly on the ground beneath me.
"In time my father will forgive me for committing suicide, but he would never forgive me for loving him in such an unusual way. I would rather he grieve for me for the rest of his life than hate me for the rest of mine. I hope you can understand little rose," I said, touching the lovely flower to my lips before placing it back in its bush. I grabbed another fistful of the damp earth before deciding on a way to return to it.
I took advantage of the fact that my father would be working late and grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen. I brought it upstairs to my bedroom and sat at the edge of my bed, laying five heavy bath towels at my feet. I nervously licked my lips and held the knife up to the light, a chill going down my spine as the light glinted off the tip of the blade's cold, sharp edge.
"Forgive me Daddy," I whispered before plunging the knife into my left wrist. I ignored the pain that exploded in my arm as I jerked the blade upward in a swift vertical motion. Nauseated by the sight of my own blood as it spouted from my torn flesh, I quickly slit my right wrist in the same fashion before vomiting all over the bath towels that were meant to catch my blood. I doubled over in pain and plummeted face first off the edge of my seat, a sickening thud echoing throughout the room as my head connected with the wooden floorboards. As they had always been, my last thoughts before closing my eyes were of my father. The memory of his smile provided me with a sense of calm as I lay there dying, and I welcomed the impenetrable darkness that encircled me with open, bleeding arms.
My father's face had been the last thing I saw before I succumbed to a deep, dreamless sleep, and it was the first thing I saw when I awoke in a hospital bed the next morning.
