When the Bough Breaks

 Read me please.

Somewhere, deep within my mind, there is a small corner. In this corner exists hopelessness, betrayal, self-loathing, vengeance, cruelty, and darkness. Horrible, terrible, darkness. Days, weeks, sometimes even months pass without me even remembering it exists. However, when life is looking up and everything is going well, I sometimes pay a visit to this place and remind myself of everything I've been through and how amazing it is that I am alive and well and thriving today.

In moments of weakness, I come to this place and fantasize about the things I could have done. I was eleven years old, and already dreaming about so many horrible things. To be honest, I don't even really like this piece, but I thought I would share anyway since it comes from this very personal, dark place. In my head the plan would work marvelously, but I (obviously) never did carry it out.

If it seems like some parts of this were rushed, it's probably because they were. My mind wouldn't let me linger long enough to fully describe everything as I wanted. Also, apologies in advance to all you grammar-nazis out there. I enjoy using horribly broken grammar in my writing. (It's on purpose, I swear.)

Oh yes, and the title is horrible, I know... but I couldn't think of anything else. :<

Disclaimer: Contains subject matter that may be disturbing or offensive to some readers. Sorry.

When the Bough Breaks

It always begins the same way.

It is dark. I can’t see your face, but every inch of my body knows you’re there. I can smell the sweat on your skin. Hear you panting and gasping. I feel your fingers, thick and calloused and greedy, touch and squeeze and run over my body. I feel your lips, your teeth, searching, nibbling, biting, sucking. Your tongue in my mouth, hesitant and hungry. I fight to scream, but my lungs betray me, a pathetic whimper leaving my lips. I hear you laugh; my stomach sinks and my eyes shut tight.

Terror.

Tonight, as all nights, I wake to the sound of my own screaming, the taste of tears on my pillow. I wake with fear in my heart and demons in my head; my sleep is plagued by visions of you. Tedward the teddy bear, as always, looks at me with sympathy, offers a hug and a soft shoulder to cry on. He is my confidant, the only other who carries the weight of the vile secret you and I share.

Such a heavy burden for a soft, innocent creature.

It is dark. Quietly, carefully, I slip out of bed and into the hallway. Tedward accompanies me, lending his unspoken encouragement and support. I can hear your snoring echo through the house, the walls shuddering and shaking at the sound. I tiptoe down the stairs, across the living room, and into the kitchen. I look into Tedward’s brown, unmoving eyes, and we agree; tonight must be the night.

The linoleum floor is cold against my bare feet. I set Tedward down on the counter and ask him to stand guard. My fingers fumble with the kitchen drawers, and I’ve found it. I pull out a knife, run a finger along its smooth, sharp edge. I press it softly to my wrist. It could be so easy. A little bit more force and I could sleep peacefully, soundly, safely, forever.

It could be so easy.

I look at Tedward in the darkness. I feel his disapproving gaze and hesitate. No, not this way, this isn’t how we planned it. I carefully put the knife back into the drawer and pull another one out in its place. This one has a long, serrated blade and a slight curve at its point. It gleams in the darkness, moonlight dancing on the metal, promising a future that is terrible and beautiful. It tickles as I run my finger along its edge. I grab Tedward and kiss him gently on the forehead, and he understands. His sacrifice will be my salvation. I plunge the knife into him, twisting it into his body until only a small part of the handle is visible. I hold him close to me, apologize, run my hand along his back, comfort his pain as he comforted mine so many countless nights.

I am sorry.

With Tedward in tow, I creep back up the stairs and toward your bedroom door. My heart pounds in my throat, nearly drowning out the sound of your snoring. My hand grips the doorknob and I let myself in. My stomach turns, my fingers tremble, my whole body feels anticipation, excitement, dread.

“Daddy…”

It is dark. My hand feels out the edge of your bed, the other holding Tedward close. I crawl under the covers next to you, the pounding in my heart growing louder and faster.

“Daddy, wake up…”

You snort a few times, clear your throat, begin to stir. I can almost hear you smile.

“Hey there, sweetie. What’s the matter? Did you have another nightmare?” I nod. I feel your arm snake around my shoulders. “It’s ok, sweetie. Daddy will make you feel better.”

My stomach sinks to my feet and I begin to shiver uncontrollably. I feel you undressing me, the sweaty sheets brushing against my skin, your chest rising and falling beneath the palms of my hands, my legs against your hips, straddling you the way you taught me. Your lips on mine. I feel your hands, excited and eager, gentle and forceful. I shut my eyes tight, clench my teeth, and desperately retreat into the furthest corners of my mind.

I am not here, I am not here, I am not here…

Doesn’t that feel good now?

I am playing with Tedward in the living room. It is sunny and the sky is impossibly blue and I can see the flowers, bright and blooming, from the window. Mommy is cooking and the air smells like vanilla and cinnamon. She walks over, kneels beside me, runs her fingers gently through my hair. I look up at her and smile, throw my arms around her. She pats me on the head and offers me a cookie.

Mmm, tastes good, doesn’t it?

I am in my room, drawing horses and birds and angels. I hear the clanging of pots and pans downstairs, and angry voices screaming at the top of their lungs. I go to my dresser and wind my Cinderella music box, but I can barely hear the small, tinny song playing against the sounds of dishes shattering and Mommy’s crying. She comes into my room and locks the door behind her, but I can still hear you screaming downstairs. She smiles and hugs me and tells me everything will be okay. Yes, Mommy, everything will be okay.

You scream.

I pull the knife from your belly and plunge it back in, deeper, faster, harder. I feel your blood, warm and sticky, splatter on my face, my arms, my legs. You scream again, and raise a hand to strike me. I slash at your arms, your throat. I see the look in your eyes and smile. Is this how it feels?

“Doesn’t that feel good now?”

Your eyes widen in horror, your hands pathetically grasping at your throat. You open your mouth as if to speak, but nothing escapes but a gurgling sound and more blood. I watch as the knife disappears and reappears, disappears and reappears, again and again and again. Your body goes limp. I plunge my hands into your wounds, marvel at how slippery and warm it feels inside you. I press my bloodied fingers to your lips.

“Mmm, tastes good, doesn’t it?”

You don’t respond.

It is dark. I cast the knife aside, grab Tedward by the hand, and make my way back to my room. I slip into the covers, give him a soft hug, and thank him for being so brave. The blood from my hands smears onto his white fur. I smile and admire his bold, new look.

"You look beautiful."

In the morning there will be sirens, and policemen, and pictures, and questions. There will be confused neighbors, disapproving gazes, and doctors. A world of trouble awaits me in the morning, but tonight, for the first time in months, I will sleep peacefully, soundly, safely.

Forever.