Page 72 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

Turning the water off, I ring out my hair and wrap a towel over my body. I soak up the heat of the room until my bones settle down and my heart regulates, then I get dressed and head downstairs.

I need to speak with Dad. Maybe if I can get answers from him, everything will go away. There’s a part of me that feels stupid that any answers would heal my open wounds. They are still there, taunting me from the inside, unable to be patched up.

Walking into the kitchen, I stop. My body tightens as I watch Dad at the stove, using a fork to maneuver something in the pan. When I look at the round clock hanging on the wall and see it’s eight-thirty in the morning, my brows crease. He should be at work by now.

As if reading my mind, he turns his head. “I’m going in late this morning. Figured you and I could have breakfast and clear the air.”

Frowning, I scratch my upper arm. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” I think. Honestly, I’m not so sure.

“Why don’t you have a seat, princess.” Dad puts what looks like sausage onto a large plate with scrambled eggs.

I hesitate for a moment. But when I see Dad’s half-smile filled with sincerity as he places a plate down on the table, I give in and sit down. I study the strange breakfast concoction on my plate; none of it looks remotely edible.

Dad takes a bite. He watches me closely as he chews. Tension builds up between us, and I don’t love how it feels. Dad unwraps the napkin on the side of his plate and brings it to his mouth.

When he’s done, he rolls it into a ball, leaving it in his fist. “Your mother always did say I was a terrible cook.”

I give him a sad smile from the mention of Mom. “Yeah. You’re certainly not the greatest.”

He pushes himself up, grabs our plates, and tosses the food into the trash, and dishes into the sink. “There’s coffee if you’d like some.”

“Sure. Yeah. That sounds nice.” I make a scrunched face when Dad turns around to grab a mug from the cabinet, wishing my words didn’t sound as awkward as they did.

I watch as he pours the coffee into the pink porcelain mug with my initials on it. His relaxing posture gives me enough hope to ease my way into the conversation I want to discuss.

“Cream? Sugar?” He doesn’t turn to look at me when he asks.

“Please.”

Neither of us says anything as he pulls Mom’s favorite sugar spoon from the silverware drawer and adds two spoonful’s of sugar into the hot coffee. My teeth tug on my bottom lip, abusing the flesh as a strange feeling coats my insides, making me feel as though Dad used that spoon to torment me in some way.

Dad quickly adds a dash of cream, stirs it, and places the mug in front of me. I give a soft smile as a way of thanks. He doesn’t sit back down like I thought he would. Instead, he leans against the counter and watches me as I blow into the mug before taking a small sip.

The warmth of the liquid flows down my throat, heating my insides and making me relax.

Shifting in my seat, I tap my fingers against the side of the cup for a beat. “Hey, Dad.”

“What is it, princess?”

I hate the stale tone in his voice. “Can I ask you something?”

He turns his head slightly. “Of course.”

I swallow through my scratchy throat. “I-I… um.” I adjust myself, trying to regain focus to spit the words out. “I saw Mom’s file.”

My eyes move up to his slowly. He remains still, staring at me blankly. It suddenly feels a lot hotter in here than it typically would on a hot summer day. The silence is threatening, and my heart begins to thud faster.

Something in me has me standing up and walking toward Dad. I reach a hand out, resting my palm on his arm. His eyes pierce through me, his expression cold. “Dad. I know it’s a violation, but I really needed some answers.”

He doesn’t say anything, leaving me feeling more defeated than I was when I saw the missing page in her file.

“Say something,” I beg.

With a quick flare of his nostrils, his arm rockets upward so fast I didn’t see it coming. His fingers wrap around my throat, pushing me as he moves forward. My feet drag against the kitchen floor until my back is met with the wall. A shooting pain slithers down my spine, causing me to wince.

My heart leaps, slamming into my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest. Dad’s brown eyes lose the tiny speck of warmth they held, turning completely cold, matching his tightening grip around my neck. I wince as his sharp nails dig into my skin, a mix of pain and fear flooding my senses. Gasping, my mouth hangs open, desperately craving a gulp of oxygen.

I struggle to fight back. My arms fly up, grabbing onto his wrists. He’s too strong, and I’m running out of air. I can feel my face turn red. My skin is scorching from the stronghold he has on me.

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