Page 78 of Watercolor Skulls

His big arms. I miss them. His beard. I miss it. My hand rises to my cheek, remembering the scratchy feel of it against my skin. His voice. God how I miss the sound of his voice.

I know you must think I’m the biggest doormat on the planet and maybe I am.

What do I do? Stand up to him? I’ve tried. Plead with someone to help me? Yep, done that.

My entire life has been molded by my father. Until I fell.

He didn’t plan for that. He didn’t seem surprised though. Maybe because of Jenny he expected it.

A knock on my door begins a rush of chaos that I can’t even wrap my head around.

It’s my wedding day.

My heart digs its heels in the ground, skidding against the gravel as I’m drug through the sham of the day.

The hair stylist that “fixed” my hair last night is back and she’s pinning and pinning until all of my hair is away from my face, trapped in a tight chignon at the base of my neck. I watch her in the mirror as she animatedly talks to the girl who’s here to do my makeup.

Both oblivious to the horrors that have taken place in this house.

When I was little I loved it when my dad would have someone come to do my hair. I would watch the girl in the mirror just as I’m doing now. Sometimes it would be the only touch I would get for weeks, months. I loved it.

Today not so much. Not now that I know what being touched by someone who really cares about you feels like. A friend’s arm draped around your shoulder, a high five given for a job well done, a hug from a little boy who appreciates your friendship. The touch of a man who loves you. Big warm hands grabbing you around the waist, pulling you to him. His breath fluttering over your cheek as his body comes inside of yours.

The makeup lady scolds me, but I don’t listen. “Girl, you’re ruining your makeup.”

Am I crying? I don’t know. I’m numb.

She huffs, leaving the room. When she returns my father is by her side a big grin on her face. I catch the wink he throws her way. “See what I mean?” She points to my face in the mirror. I don’t turn around.

“Can you ladies please give my daughter and I a minute?”

They both scurry out of the room. If only they knew.

He lays his hand on my shoulder. “Would you like me to have your mother come up and help you finish?”

“No, thank you. Is she here?”

“She is.” His eyes search mine.

Figures. What kind of mother doesn’t help her daughter get ready for her big day. I’ve seen movies of brides surrounded by their friends and family. The mother of the bride is always fret with finishing touches, tears in her eyes.

He reaches around my shoulder, a tiny pill in his palm. “Take this. It will help.”

I stare at it. Fear tingles up my spine.

My eyes meet his in the mirror. I had forgotten this part.

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I drop my eyes. Every cell in body screams at me to pull away. His hand is hot and heavy on my shoulder. Unrelenting.

“I insist.” He pulls the glass of water on my dressing table closer to me. Again, opening his palm.

The pill sticks in my throat on the way down. I cough lightly. He pats me on the back. “There’s my girl,” he says softly. “Benjamin bought a home a few miles away. You will be comfortable there and once you meet some other wives your age you’ll see it’s not so bad.”

“You want me to have a life like mother’s?”

“It’s not a bad life.”

I shake my head sadly. That’s not life at all.

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