Dear Tabitha

by Trudy Stiles

  “You see, this is how it works, Princess. You don’t cry or whine or any of this fucking bullshit that you’re trying to pull with me right now. Understand? This is my apartment, and I own everything in it. That includes you.” He lets go of my hair, and I fall to the floor, trying to cover myself up. I have never been touched like this before. I’m terrified that he’s going to do it again.

  “Please, I don’t know what you want from me, but this, I just can’t.” I plead with him, but he cuts me off.

  “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.” He grabs my face with one of his giant hands. He squeezes my cheeks, and I can barely open my mouth. My jaw feels like it’s about to snap.

  “I’ll say this one more time so it’s clear. I. Own. You. Now. Got it? You make this easy for me, and things will be simple. You resist me like you are now, and – well, things won’t be so simple for you.” He lets go of my face long enough for me to take a breath. Then the back of his hand connects with my cheek and sends me reeling into the wall. My head crashes into the door molding. I’m shaking in fear and pain. I sob uncontrollably and hold my hand against my face. The place where his massive hand made contact is throbbing but numb.

  “Now, Princess, show me what I want to see,” he demands.

  I don’t even know what he means. What does he want to see? I watch him as I quiver in the corner. He’s staring at my breasts again. I have adjusted my tank top so that I’m now mostly covered, but he has other ideas.

  He sits back on the couch and spreads his arms out over the back. “Let me see you. All of you.”

  “I can’t.” I sob. “Please, don’t make me,” I beg. I taste salt from the tears streaming down my face.

  “You’re doing this on your own, or with my help. So get on with it. Either way, I’ll enjoy it.”

  I don’t want his hands on me again. Ever again. I quickly fumble for the straps of my tank and pull them down. My nipples immediately harden from the cold air.

  Tony’s breath hitches. “Touch them,” he commands.

  Touch myself? I can’t do this. “I ca-“ I’m unable to get the words out.

  He jumps from the couch again and presses me back against the wall. He grabs my hand, roughly puts it over my breast, and uses his fingers to pinch mine together. “I want to see you do this.” He forces my fingers to grasp my nipple as his tongue travels down my neck. “Now, show me what I want.” He frees me and goes back to the couch again.

  I’m crying hysterically now, but that doesn’t faze him at all. I hesitantly bring my other hand to my breast so that I can grab and pinch both of my nipples between my fingers. I close my eyes so I can’t see him.

  “Open your eyes, Princess,” he commands.

  I follow his instructions, and with each task, I’m getting more and more self-conscious. I don’t understand why he is doing this to me.

  “Pants. Off.” His menacing eyes tell me what I need to know. If I don’t do what he says, he’ll force me. I slowly remove my yoga pants, leaving my panties firmly on my body. I look up at him as I tremble. “Turn around.” I start to spin in place. “Slow.”

  I face the wall and bring my hands to my face. Why is this happening? I hear him get off of the couch, and I feel his chest against my back. His hands are on my breasts again, pinching and pulling. He presses himself against my ass. Oh my God, I can feel his erection. I feel nauseous and try to pull away. This only makes him more determined. He reaches down between us and rips my panties from my body. His calloused hand travels over my ass, down between my legs. Please, no! I don’t want him to touch me there. I whimper and clamp my legs together, trapping his hand between my thighs.

  “Do you really think you can stop me, Princess? Why do you keep trying?” He snickers. He uses his knee to pry my thighs apart. My face is pressed into the hard wall as his mouth travels down my neck and over my shoulders. His teeth graze my shoulder as a finger pushes into me. I gasp and gag as he says, “You’ll want this soon enough. You’ll beg me for it.” His erection presses into my ass again. He laughs as he removes his finger from me. I fall to the floor, and curl into a ball. My breathing is erratic. My ears are ringing. I want to die. Or pass out. Please. I can’t handle what I know is coming next. I’ve never been with a man before. With anyone like that. I close my eyes and wait.

  The door opens again and I hear a woman’s voice. “Tony! I told you that I ordered your favorite. Stop with this girl and let’s eat.”

  I continue to gasp for air and open my eyes. She has a look of fear on her face. Is she worried about me? Jesus, why did she leave me in the first place?

  “Mama, I was just finishing up.”

  “Let’s go, now,” she commands. Her eyes meet mine, and she nods.

  He comes over to me one last time, wraps his hands through my hair, and pulls me to him. His lips press against my ear as he snarls, “Next time, you listen and do what I tell you. Understand? I always win.”

  I drop back to the floor when he releases me.

  As Tony and his mother leave the apartment, I notice that he has my backpack slung over his shoulder. No! All of my money is in there. I need that money to survive, to live. Oh my God! He’s taken everything from me. The door locks in place, and I’m trapped once again.

  And this time, I fear there is no escape.

  Past

  Age 18

  “YOU FUCKING moron!” he screams almost incoherently as spit flies from his mouth. “Who makes pancakes for dinner?” The plate that I placed in front of him whizzes past my head, shattering against the tiled walls, and falling onto the floor. Syrup drips down my cheek and one of the pancakes is stuck to my chest. “I can’t take your stupidity anymore, Alex. You’re just a useless fuck!” He lunges toward me and his fist connects with my jaw. My vision begins to blacken and blur as I stumble backwards through the door into the garage.

  “Pops, no!” I plead as I try to regain my footing. My face throbs from his punch and it feels like my cheek has shattered. He continues to yell but his words are incoherent at this point. He stumbles into the garage after me and continues to pummel me with his fists. The stench of the alcohol on his breath is overpowering, causing me to gag. He lands a crushing blow to my gut, knocking the wind out of me and causing me to drop to the floor. In desperation, I take a swing at him and miss.

  That was a mistake.

  He roars, “You stupid fucker! You think you can lay a hand on me?” He’s shocked that I’m trying to defend myself since I haven’t in the past. But this attack is far worse than anything he’s ever inflicted on me. I’m woozy and feel like I’m going to black out. I continue to swing at him blindly as he mocks me, “Son, you’re no match for me.” Suddenly, I’m flying through the air after his boot clad foot crushes into my chest, catapulting me into the workbench. I slump to the floor, gasping for air as I see him stumble toward me. He raises something long above his head, but my vision is too blurry to see what it is. As he begins to come into focus, I don’t notice the object that’s about to make contact with my gut.

  I notice his eyes. They’re burning with fire.

  I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

  I sit up with a jolt. Heart racing. Palms sweaty. I’m gasping for air and clutching my chest. I toss the covers off and open my lungs to allow the air to flow in. I’m panting and tears are streaming down my cheeks. My ribs are sore, mimicking the pain that I felt almost four years ago when Pops tried to kill me with a metal garden rake.

  He’s dead. Long gone.

  But my nightmares are still very much alive. At least once a night, I wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding in my chest and a silent scream escaping from my lips. Each dream is so real that I swear I can still feel the prongs from the rake digging into my side, tearing at my guts. You’d think by now, I should be able to cope. That my memories would begin to fade. I wish they would fade. But it feels like it happened just yesterday, and I can still see my father’s lifeless body swinging in the bathroom. These dre
ams remind me of what he did to Mom and me. What a vile person he was.

  “Alex?” I hear a soft voice outside my door.

  I’ve been living with Dax’s family, the Andersons, since my father’s suicide. They were able to assume guardianship of me when I was fourteen. Dax’s mom, Lila, is a social worker, and his father, Drew, is a lawyer. After my father died, my sister was named my legal guardian, but she was barely an adult herself. She was relieved when the Andersons stepped in and opened their home to me. With my sister’s consent, they were able to appeal to the courts, requesting that I come live with them.

  Here, I have my own room. My own space. Of course, I’m always welcome to crash at Reagan’s apartment any time I want, but I really like living here with the Andersons.

  “Come in,” I say to Lila as she opens the door.

  “Honey, are you okay? I could hear you from our bedroom.” She walks over and sits on the end of my bed. “Do you want to talk about it?” Her concern is evident on her face as I shake my head.

  This is the first time in a while that anyone outside my room has heard my nighttime struggles. I feel bad that I woke her up. And embarrassed.

  “I’m okay, Mrs. Anderson.” I take a sip from the bottle of water on my nightstand.

  “Alex, you didn’t sound okay.” The look of concern on her face is evident. “I’m worried about you. I think it’s time you talk to someone about these awful nightmares that you’re having.” Her tone is suddenly stern as she assumes a motherly role. She doesn’t realize that I already have started talking to someone. I have a counselor at school whose been helping me try to sort out some of these feelings that I’ve been having. He knows about the nightmares to an extent. I’m working my way up to sharing everything, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that he’s going to think I’m a pussy for taking my father’s beatings for so long. I should have started defending myself sooner, and then maybe, he would have backed off.

  “I’m going to be fine,” I lie. “I’m actually tired now. I’m going to try to go back to sleep.” I don’t want to talk about what I’m feeling. Lila is amazing, and Dax’s family has welcomed me with open arms after Pops died and treats me like their son. But I’m not ready to tell her everything that I’ve been through. I don’t want her to think that I’m weak.

  “Are you sure?” she asks quietly. She stands up slowly, waiting for me to acknowledge.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I feign a yawn and stretch my arms out in front of me. “Goodnight,” I say to her as she turns to leave the room.

  “We’ll talk more in the morning, after you’ve gotten some rest, okay?” she says as she closes the door.

  I reach into my night table and take out my sketchpad. It’s filled with poems and lyrics to songs that constantly play over and over in my head. Words of sadness and despair. Loneliness. Terror.

  My counselor encourages me to write everything that I’m feeling. Poetry and music are the only ways that I know how. It comes natural to me and allows me to purge my feelings onto the paper, giving me temporary relief from my memories and pain.

  Tonight, however, I’m not writing words. I’m sketching a picture. Something that signifies all of my pain and suffering at the hands of my father. I draw until the sun comes up, making the finishing touches to the drawing as I hear a loud knock on my door.

  “Alex, are you awake?” Dax says, opening the door.

  “I am now,” I say, dropping my sketchpad onto the bed in front of me.

  “Dude, I’m stoked to get my tattoo today. Aren’t you?” he asks as he makes himself comfortable on my bed near my feet.

  I nod toward the pad of paper in front of him. “Check it out. I just designed my tattoo,” I say.

  Dax grabs the pad and looks at the sketch of my future tattoo. He raises his eyebrows and scowls. “What the fuck? Dude, this is dark. Even for you.” He turns the paper so that I’m staring at my own artwork.

  “It’s real. It’s fucking real,” I say, feeling the need to explain myself. “It’s part of my life story. I lived to tell my story. In spite of him. It will be my constant reminder that I survived and he didn’t.” Fuck, yeah.

  He shakes his head and I can see his concern. He and his mother get the same look in their eyes when they are worried about me or anything in general. “Think about it. You may regret this in the future. Why do you want a reminder of him and the way he died? I’m confused.” Dax leans against the wall and drops the pad in front of me on the bed.

  I answer him matter-of-factly. “That picture is going to cover up the scars that he left on me. And it’s going to serve as a constant reminder that I fucking lived. What’s not to get?” I need this tattoo. I need to feel the burning sensation as it’s carved into my skin like a brand. For life.

  “Whatever, man. It’s not something I would do. That’s all. I’m your best friend, so maybe you should trust me for once and do the right thing. Don’t permanently place something on your body that you’re going to regret.” He looks at my fingers. “Like those.” He nods, looking at the tattoos on my fingers that spell ‘EPIC FAIL’. That’s what I am and what I’ve been my entire life. A huge fucking epic fail. Pops would remind me of that every time he beat the shit out of me. I failed at everything, and he never let me forget it. The tattoos on my fingers are my constant reminder.

  “I have no regrets.” I lie. I have so many regrets. So many things beyond my control.

  He raises one eyebrow and smirks. “You keep telling yourself that, okay?” He looks down at his phone. “Our appointment is in fifteen minutes. Are you sure you want to get that tattoo?” he asks one last time.

  “Definitely,” I answer without hesitation.

  I feel calm now. I love getting ink. There’s something about the buzzing sound of the needle that makes me drift off into a happy place. I look forward to the pain and numbness caused by the process. It helps me forget and erase him from my memory.

  I grab my jacket, and follow Dax out to the car.

  ~

  My ribs ache. I’m sore, and it feels great. I lift my shirt to admire my new ink in the mirror. It’s a rope about the length of my torso with a noose at the bottom. This is how Pops died. He hung himself. I close my eyes and remember seeing his shadow swinging in the doorway. I hated him. Despised what he did. To my mother. To me. That fucker deserved to die the way he did. Alone with the demons in his head.

  He scribbled a note to me and my sister apparently right after he tried to kill me. Just before he hung himself.

  Dear Alex & Reagan,

  This world is fucked up. I’m fucked up. I have no other excuse for the way that I am, and I know that I can’t go on like this anymore. I’m tired of feeling. I’m tired of hating. I’m a monster, and I’ve fucked up so many lives. I know I won’t be seeing your mother where I’m about to go, but Hell is better than living on this miserable Earth.

  Pops

  The fucker didn’t even have the decency to try to find me. I was practically bleeding to death in the basement, and he just wanted to end it all. He was full of anger and rage. He was a raging alcoholic that couldn’t control his urges. He was fucked up beyond repair. I hope he’s learned his lesson in Hell if that’s where he indeed is.

  I stare at the noose in the mirror. It looks three-dimensional. Real. This noose erases my scars and reminds me of who and what caused them. I won’t inherit his rage.

  I won’t be like him.

  Past

  Age 18

  THE DAYS and nights blur together. I feel like I’m living in my own private nightmare. I honestly don’t know how much time has passed since I got here. Since I’ve been a prisoner. A few weeks? A few months? A year? It’s even hard to tell what day it is. I have nothing. I look around my apartment and want to vomit. Bad things happen here. Very bad things.

  I’m no longer allowed to keep my tips. They are handed over to Dante or Tony when I finish work every night. I have nothing. Tony has made sure to strip me of everything. Well, I have a fe
w things hidden in the kitchen, the one place that Tony never enters. My photo of Trina and a few dollars that I’ve been able to skim behind his back. The only clothes that I have are the ones that I wore when I got here and my cocktail uniform. He’s taken everything from me.

  My dignity.

  My strength.

  My virginity.

  My will to live.

  All of these things were brutally ripped from me. I’m afraid I’ll never get any of it back. He’s a horrible monster. I have the scars to prove it.

  I never know when he is going to come here. When he does, it’s usually very late, long after my shift is finished. He’s regularly invaded my bed for a while now. The first time was excruciating. He was violent and forceful. He ripped me to shreds. I bled for over an hour after he was finished with me. I know that I passed out at least once during the ordeal because I woke up to him yelling at me while he slapped my face. Now when he rapes me, and it is rape, I just lie there and drift off to another place. Another world. Where I’m a normal girl. He’s a sick fuck and reminds me of this every time he violates me.

  The only other person that he permits me to interact with is his mother, Marta. I’ve strangely come to enjoy our weekly meals together. She knows what I’m going through because she’s been through something similar. She has a few scars on her neck and arms. She’s a proud woman and she claims to wear them as a badge of honor. She says her scars show her immense love and loyalty to her late husband. I struggle with this mentality. How can she be proud of the fact that he beat her? I won’t subscribe to it and I feel very sorry for her. I also feel sorry for myself because I’m heading down that same path. But I will never wear the scars and bruises that Tony inflicts on me with pride. I cover them. I’m ashamed by what I’ve let happen to me.

  I’m silently trying to count the days that I’ve been a prisoner here when Tony’s mother walks into the club. Today is our weekly dinner. She walks over to me and allows me to kiss her cheek.