Faking Changes

1 Courtney I heard his heavy steps in the hallway and curled in on myself in an attempt to make my body as small as possible. The familiar desire to disappear crept over me. When someone asks what super-power we would choose if we were to be bestowed with one, I don’t even have to think about my answer. I would pick the ability to be invisible, and I would hide. His stomps echoed in my ears, and I knew he was coming closer to my bedroom. I tried to conceal myself under my threadbare blanket, but I knew he would see me there. In the past, I had attempted to hide in the closet or under my bed, but he always found me. The thrill of searching for me, slightly delaying the inevitable, only served to make him more excited. From experience, I knew that his extra excitement manifested itself in even more roughness. On the nights when I attempted to hide, he was particularly brutal. When he eventually discovered my hiding spot, he would forcefully yank me to him by my wrist or ankle. As much as every instinct within me screamed to get out of my bed, I knew that I was better off to stay here and quietly endure what was coming. The more I fought, the more he liked it. I heard his body clumsily slam into the wall in the hallway, and I knew that he was especially drunk tonight. My limbs were shivering as I silently mouth the words, “Please pass out” over and over. The precious nights when his drunken stupor rendered him unable to function were my only reprieves from his attacks. The doorknob to my room slowly turned. I wished for the millionth time that it locked from the inside, though I knew that even if it did, it probably wouldn’t stop him for long. He flung the door wide open and stood at the threshold for a while, relishing his glee at what he was about to do, and the extreme terror and horror it would cause me. As he stumbled towards my bed, I heard his heavy breaths. He was a mouth-breather—a big, dumb, mean, mouth-breathing oaf. I squeezed my eyes firmly closed so I wouldn’t have to look at him or how close he was to my tiny bed. He stood over me, tall and imposing. I slightly opened one eye to see what he was waiting for, but then quickly squeezed it tightly shut again. I couldn’t bear to look at the half-lidded anticipatory look in his cold, dark, beady eyes. “Take ‘em off, or I’ll rip ‘em off.” He sneered as he said the ugly words to me. I delicately lifted my hips and slid my panties down my goose-pimply legs. The dread of what I knew was about to happen sat heavily in my belly. Tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. He enjoyed making me cry, and I didn’t want to give him any more satisfaction than my unwilling little body was about to be forced into providing. He made a production of slowly unbuckling his belt and lowering his pants. I was not looking, but I could tell what he was doing by the all-too-familiar sounds. My first instinct was to yell for my mother. Weren’t moms supposed to protect their little girls from this sort of thing? I knew that mine wouldn’t be any help, though. She would either turn a blind eye to what was happening, or blame me for trying to steal her man. I couldn't count on my mother for protection. These unspeakable acts had been going on under her roof for many months––she must know. It's not as if our mobile home is spacious or soundproof enough for anything to happen without the rest of the household being aware. She had surely heard him stumbling into my room, and she had chosen not to protect me. The knowledge that she was aware and didn't intervene hurt almost more than what the mouth-breather did. His actions were sickening and vile, but I had become somewhat numb to it. He was a disgusting pig of a man, and I fervently wished for his gruesome and violent death on a daily basis. I loved my mother, though, and the fact that she let this happen ripped my heart to shreds. How could she not step in and demand a stop to this? When it happened the first time, my stepfather warned me that if I yelled or spoke a word of what had occurred to anyone, he would kill my mom. And I believed him. I’m still not willing to take the chance that he might be true to his word. Even as many times as my mom has let me down, she is all that my younger sister and I have. I turned away as he ripped the thin blanket off me and tossed it aside. My twin bed sank as his hulking body covered me. He roughly pulled my long, blonde hair, forcing me to face him. My eyes were tightly closed and my brain was willing me to be anywhere but here. His stubbly whiskers rubbed roughly against my cheek. My nostrils flared as I smelled the familiar, pungent scent of him—a putrid mix of beer, sweat, Doritos and unwashed clothes. The bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it back down. I didn’t want to face the punishment he would dole out if I got sick on him. He covered my mouth with his gorilla-like hand, and I knew what was coming next. I struggled to take in air through my nose with his fat finger blocking off one nostril. I tried to visualize myself in another time and another place, but all I could manage to think about was here and now. It seemed like the pain would lessen over time, but it didn’t. He used his other hand to pry my legs apart. There wasn’t room for him in the apex, but he wedged his way in. My legs ached with the weight of him. When he raised his fat, pasty a*s high in the air, I cringed against the onslaught that was about to happen. When he lowered and rammed himself into my unwilling body, I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I awoke bolting upright in my bed, my mouth open in a wide ‘O’ of absolute horror, with silent screams trying to surface. I looked around my room in relief, taking in great gulps of air as I attempted to absorb my surroundings. My heart was pounding hard enough that I could hear the throbbing beats racing to pump blood through my adrenalin-filled system. My entire body was shaking uncontrollably as I ran my fingers through my short hair. My pixie haircut acted as a solid, physical reminder that I was no longer that scared little girl who wanted to disappear. I intentionally focused on my queen-sized bed and my huge closet. I am grown-up. I never have to see him again. It was just a nightmare. I made these words my silent mantra, repeating them over and over until my breathing normalized and the shaking subsided. Once I was reasonably calm, I flopped back down on my bed wondering if I would ever be able to escape the t*****e of that horrible man, or if he would continue to haunt me for the rest of my life.