.33 Caliber Love Story (EN) Suivre l’histoire

I didn't realize anything but my compulsive crying. Although it had been a long time since I was no longer a child, I’d never stopped fearing the nights when I would see him enter that damn door. Over the years, the pain would never end, not even diminish even a little. Unable to contain my sobs as I held my own legs, I stared at him, with his back to me, digging for his own shirt on the floor of my messy room.

"Stop crying, Frank," he said sharply, finding the shirt and dressing it up without looking at me. "Try to look like a man at least once in your life."

I tried to stifle my weeping. Not because of what he'd said, but because I couldn't breathe properly anymore. Along with shortness of breath came more sobs and more pain.

"Won’t you ever get sick of doing this to me?" I muttered the words painfully. He was probably tired of this kind of question. I was too, but I couldn't keep it from leaving my lips.

When he turned back to me, there was a smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that didn't reach his eyes as he approached me again in my bed. He put his knees on the mattress and his hands on the headboard where I was leaning, on either side of my head. His movements were slow, as if it was a ritual. I just watched him, wincing a little, as if there was nothing else to do. Well, there really wasn't.

“Not really. You are mine, Frankie. Nothing fairer than me having what's rightfully mine.”

There was no answer to that, other than a soft, tired gasp. As I stared into his eyes, I couldn't see in them any remnants of the person I once admired most. I could no longer recognize him. Especially when he kissed me harshly, as he did right then. I had to let his tongue in my mouth, because I already knew the consequences of trying to stop him, I was honestly too tired for that night. It only increased my disgust and hatred for him, each day more and more. Hatred for him and for myself. I was the helpless little whore he took whichever way and whenever he wanted.

Fortunately, it was over soon, and my father got to his feet, then he left after turning off the light. He left like that, like it was nothing. As if nothing had happened. As if it hadn't left me shattered and bleeding and dying inside, just like every other time, for the past seven years. As if he had no conscience.

“Damn you... I hope you die...” I wiped my face in the sheets, groping the bedside table in the dark until I found the cylindrical orange bottle, and took some pills from it. I was tired of feeling desperate and crying after his visits. It was no use. It didn't make the pain go away. It wouldn’t make anything right.