Hillary flung herself on the bed and allowed herself to sob. She wasn’t ready to go downstairs just yet. It was Saturday. Her dad was likely seated at the table reading the newspaper.
Ten minutes later, she heard her mother’s annoyed voice calling to her, “Hiillllaaaarrry....”
She knew she couldn’t hide in her room forever. She had to pull herself together and walk downstairs to eat her breakfast, though she had no appetite whatsoever. Wiping the lingering tears from the corners of her eyes, Hillary sat up on her bed, took a deep breath, stood up then walked out of her room. She walked down the steps slowly, cautiously listening out for her father. Was he at the table?
Hillary entered the dining room and took her usual seat at the empty table. She was relieved to be alone. She placed a single pancake on her plate and started picking at it, knowing that she would be unable to leave the table without eating. The bits of pancake tasted like rubber in her mouth and she had to force herself to swallow them down.
When she was nearly done eating her pancake, a figure caught her attention. Her father had joined her at the table. She looked at him, sitting beside her in her sister’s usual seat. She quickly averted her eyes, stared down at her food and sat as still as her quivering body allowed.
“Good morning, Hilly,” her father said, as if this were just another ordinary morning.
Hillary was caught off guard. Maybe it was all just a mistake...some sort of misunderstanding. She opened her mouth to say ‘good morning’ but she couldn’t utter a sound. If her father was somehow unaware of what happened, she didn’t want to say anything. She just wanted to forget it ever happened.
Michael Greyson could see how tense and uncomfortable his daughter was. It was obvious that she hadn’t slept through it after all. He grew concerned for a split second—merely a split second. Then he was overcome with anger at her deceit. He would make sure that she understood that he was in charge, that he would get what he wanted. He would make sure she kept her mouth shut. He would make sure that she stayed in line. She was his daughter, after all. What could she possibly do to him?
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, with a threateningly sharp edge to his voice, as if to say, “you slept well, period. Don’t ever say otherwise. Keep your mouth shut about what happened.”
Hillary simply nodded. She got the message, loud and clear. She began shaking harder, uncontrollably. Now she knew for sure that he was awake, he was conscious of what he did. He purposefully raped her.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, coldly.
Hillary nodded quickly, shutting her eyes tightly to prevent her tears from spilling out.
Mr. Greyson leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “it wasn’t so bad, it’ll get better.”
Hillary could no longer hold back her tears. She sobbed as quietly as possible as Mr. Greyson piled some pancakes onto his plate. She didn’t dare to look at him.
“It’s gonna be a good day today...a really good day,” he said snidely.
Hillary stood to leave. Mr. Greyson quickly placed his hand over hers causing her to jump.
“Sit,” he said softly, but from his tone it was apparent that this was an order, not a request.
Hillary did as she was told.
“So how’s school going, Princess?” he asked cordially.
Hillary didn’t reply. She couldn’t bring herself to engage in a friendly conversation with the man who had horribly traumatized her just hours before.
“Hilly? Did you hear me?”
Hillary nodded. Tears continued to spill from her eyes.
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” he asked in a hushed voice.
Overreacting? Hillary couldn’t believe he could ask such a thing. She felt like she was trapped in a bizarre dream. This couldn’t be real. This wasn’t her life. This wasn’t her father. Her father was kind and gentle and sweet and loving. Her father would never hurt her like this.
Leaning close to her ear, he said, “I expect you to be mature about this, Hillary. This is just the way it’s gonna be from now on.”
His words sent a chill down her spine. Was this only the beginning? Was he informing her of his intention to have his way with her from this day forward? Hillary couldn’t bear the thought. She didn’t think she could deal with such an encounter again. Without even realizing it, she was shaking her head, to her father’s dismay. He looked greatly annoyed.
“You’ll do as I want,” he said curtly, sitting up quickly as Mrs. Greyson entered the room.
“Are there enough—hey, what’s the matter?” she asked Hillary.
Mr. Greyson answered instead.
“It’s okay, I’ve got this one,” he winked at his wife.
“I knew something was going on. Let me know if you need to talk, sweetie.”
Mrs. Greyson bent to hug Hillary. She looked so distraught. Her mother wondered what was bothering her. She was sure that her husband would fill her in on it later. Giving them some privacy, she walked back into the kitchen to tend to some dishes.
Mr. Greyson lifted Hillary’s chin up so that she would meet his icy gaze. His piercing steel blue eyes were devoid of remorse.
“Pull yourself together,” he ordered in a low voice just over a whisper, “you’ll upset your mother.”
This time Hillary nodded. She had to do as he said. She had to obey him. Maybe if she was a good, sweet daughter, he’d leave her alone again. Maybe she had done something wrong to provoke his actions. She forced a thin smile upon her anguished face.
“That’s my girl,” Mr. Greyson said softly, a big grin plastered on his face. His eyes grew warm and gentle once more. It was as if her acquiescence had transformed the beast back into the man. He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it gently. Hillary didn’t dare withdraw her hand, though she found the gesture greatly nauseating. She looked away as he closed his eyes as if to savor a euphoric moment.
Moments later, he released her hand and turned his attention to the pile of pancakes on the plate before him.
“Aren’t you going to finish your food, Princess?”
Hillary shook her head then quickly added, “I’m full.” She didn’t want to make him angry again. She had to get things back to normal with her father.
“Okay, well you can keep me company while I eat,” he said, benevolently enough, but implicitly he was warning Hillary to stay put. She sat in silence and watched him devour his breakfast. He said nothing further but when he was done, he started humming Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” His eerily low tone sent shivers down Hillary’s spine. Without caring about disappointing or angering her father, Hillary rose swiftly and ran to the bathroom. She threw up violently as tears flooded her eyes. There was nothing wonderful about her world anymore.
~1~
Hillary grew sick with anxiety each night for the next couple of days, expecting her father to visit her bed again. On the third night, her anxiety turned to dread as she was awakened by her father’s hand groping her between her thighs. He was in bed with her, naked from the waist down.
Unable to suppress her fear, she gasped loudly as she cringed away from his touch.
“Shhh,” Mr. Greyson whispered, drunk with anticipation, “don’t wake your mother.”
Hillary felt an overwhelming urge to throw up. She shook her head frantically, eyes widened, begging her father to leave her alone.
Mr. Greyson leaned forward and kissed her neck passionately, slowly, then worked his way down to her chest.
“Daddy...please don’t,” Hillary cried, trembling with fear.
Overwhelmed with disgust, she attempted to turn away from him.
Mr. Greyson placed his hand on her shoulder and firmly held her in place. He was growing annoyed by her resistance.
“Don’t fight it baby, it feels good....”
“No, no Daddy, please stop touching me...please Daddy, this isn’t right.”
“It’s right, Princess, you’re mine, you’re my
girl.”
“I’m your daughter,” Hillary yelled, her sharp voice piercing the silence. She didn’t intend to be so loud but needed to emphasize who she was. Had he forgotten somehow? What happened to change everything so drastically?
Mr. Greyson cupped his hand over Hillary’s mouth and jerked her head roughly.
“Shut up,” he whispered angrily, “I made you...I own you...I’m going to have you and do whatever I want with you. This is right, Princess, nothing is more natural....”
Tears flowed like waterfalls from Hillary’s terrified eyes. She knew her father was going to violate her again. She just didn’t know how outrageous his acts would be.
Horrified by his nonchalance, saddened by this unholy betrayal, Hillary became hysterical. She pulled away from him and tried her best to get out of bed.
“Let go of me,” she shouted, “don’t touch me, leave me alone, get off—”
Mr. Greyson reached for her before she could leave the bed, tightening his grip on her arm. He roughly and painfully yanked her down upon the bed and cupped her mouth once again. His heart was racing and he was furious. How dare Hillary try to wake her mother with all that yelling...try to leave the bed...try to deny him what was rightfully his for the taking?
“Shut up!” he hissed as loud as he dared.
Hillary saw madness within his eyes, a fury that threatened to harm her if she didn’t cooperate. This man holding down her quivering body was not her father. Her cries hushed to quiet whimpering and she nodded to show her acquiescence.
Mr. Greyson removed his hand from her tear-dampened mouth.
“Maybe you need something in your mouth to keep you quiet,” he whispered fiendishly as he shifted his pelvis up toward her face.
“Daddy, please...” she shrieked in horror, a final plea to the man who used to be her dad.
“You’re my creation, baby, my flesh and blood. Taste my flesh, sweetheart.”
Hillary yearned for her mattress to turn into quicksand, to engulf her body entirely and save her from this cruel, sick fate. Instead, as her eyes widened even more in revulsion, her lips parted as her father entered her mouth. She could not fight him. She would let him have his way with her. He made her, he owned her. She was his daughter, his flesh and blood...and she was utterly helpless.
Hillary’s father continued to visit her frequently, introducing her to more and more abominably sexual acts that should never exist within a thirteen-year-old’s comprehension, let alone life experience. For several weeks, Hillary had tried her best to protest, to reason with the man who resembled her once-loving father, to no avail. Mr. Greyson would always remind her of the hierarchy: he reigned supreme, she was his subject. She was no more to him than a piece a property, a slave.
“You belong to me,” he always asserted without hesitation, “you’re mine. You’re my flesh and blood.”
Her father was clearly deranged. He believed he had every right to have sexual relations with Hillary. He had given her life. Now it was her turn to give life to his empty, meaningless existence. She had been exactly what his life was missing. She provided exactly what he needed and there was no way he was going back to being miserable.
With his absurd notion of sexual entitlement to Hillary, Mr. Greyson felt absolutely no remorse. Even as his daughter trembled underneath him in fear, even as she cried and begged for him to stop, even as she withdrew socially and deteriorated academically, Mr. Greyson continued to defile his sorrowful child.
Months later, Hillary stopped protesting. She had resigned herself to a life of sexual servitude, fulfilling her father’s every sexual desire. She no longer questioned him or begged him to stop. She did as she was told, participating in his deviant acts as little as possible. Whenever she could, she dissociated herself from the trauma, mentally removing herself from her bedroom and seeking refuge in the solace of the woods. Nothing her father did to her was real...she wasn’t there; she was roaming freely along the trails of the deep, beautiful woods.
Hillary had been visiting the nearby woods with growing frequency. She no longer partook in after-school activities. She no longer spent time with her friends. She no longer cared about anything except being alone in the woods where no one could judge her, where no one could hurt her.
Hillary’s prolonged suffering spiraled into a deep depression. One day, nearly eight months after her first encounter with her father, Hillary refused to get out of bed.
“I don’t understand what’s gotten into you,” her mother yelled in frustration. “You quit cheerleading, you quit the track team, your grades keep dropping, now this. You used to be the perfect teenager. Are you on drugs or something?”
“No!” Hillary yelled back, somewhat insulted by her mother’s accusation. Yet a big part of her didn’t even care what anyone thought about her. Her self-esteem, along with her will to live, was rapidly deteriorating.
“Then what is it? What, Hillary?”
Despite the despair, there was a small part of Hillary left that wasn’t quite ready to give up completely...a part of her that clung to hope when all else seemed so dire. This small lingering part of Hillary begged her to reach out to her mother, to tell her what she had been going through.
The predominant part of her refused to allow that smaller rational voice to prevail. Hillary resisted the urge to believe that things could be different, that someone could help her. However tempting it was to fling herself into her mother’s arms and have her make it all better, Hillary could not bring herself to do so. Whether fearful of her father’s subsequent reprisal or mindful of the pain it would hurl upon her mother, she instead ignored those whispers of hope. She refused to involve anyone else in her madness. She would continue dealing with it on her own.
Her mother broke down and began sobbing. She had tried so many times to get Hillary to open up to her. It couldn’t be boy troubles…this was something far more disturbing, something serious.
Hillary sat up in bed. Her mother sat beside her.
“I’m okay,” Hillary said softly, unpersuasively.
“No, no. There’s something wrong. What is happening to you?”
“I’m just tired.”
“Tell me, Hilly Bee, please tell me what’s wrong,” her mother begged, whimpering. She was heartbroken that her oldest child was clearly suffering so much and she was powerless to help her.
“I’ll be okay,” Hillary said, more confidently, “I promise.”
“Let me help you, sweetie. Whatever it is, I can make it better.”
Hillary was silent. Could her mother really make it better? She wished she could accept her mother’s offer, her mother’s protection. But it would only tear her mother apart. She couldn’t imagine the pain and heartache her mother would suffer to find out that her husband was cheating on her...with their own child. No, there was no way Hillary could ever tell her about it.
“Really, Mom, it’s just teenage girl stuff,” she replied, trying her best to assure her mother that she would be fine. She hated to see her mother so upset. She couldn’t imagine how much more upset her mother would be if she knew the truth. She would never put her through that. She would shield her mother from that pain.
“I was once a teenage girl too, Hilly...this isn’t normal. Are you having some kind of trouble in school?”
“I just need a day off, that’s all.”
“Your teachers don’t understand what happened. You were an A student, now you’re barely passing. Don’t you even care anymore? What did this to you?”
Hillary couldn’t help it, she began to cry.
“Please, Mom,” Hillary begged, “please just leave me alone.”
“Baby, please, tell me what’s wrong....”
Her mother calling her “baby” made her whimper even harder. It left her vulnerable. She was disappointed in herself; she needed to be strong.
“It’s okay to cry, sweetie, let it out...talk to me....”
Mrs. Greyson leaned over and took Hillary into her arms,
hugging her daughter tightly. Hillary felt so tiny, so frail. She had shed several pounds over the last few months. Though yearning for her mother’s protective embrace, Hillary abruptly pulled back. She hated to be touched.
“What can I do to help?” her mother asked, saddened by Hillary’s refusal to be consoled.
“Nothing,” Hillary snapped, a sharp edge replacing her usually soft, sweet voice. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and gazed across her room, stone-faced.
Mrs. Greyson could barely stand the transformation. She had heard horrific stories of mean, angry, depressed teen-aged girls, but she would never have believed that Hillary could become one of them. She wanted to believe that her daughter was just going through a normal, preferably short-lived phase, but her gut instinct told her that Hillary’s sudden personality change was neither normal nor temporary. She had a dreadful feeling that her daughter was forever changed by whatever she was going through. She had a disturbingly somber feeling that the Hillary she once knew and loved was gone for good.
She was right. As the months continued to fly by, Hillary withdrew even further. During the summer months when school was no longer in session, she rarely left her room other than to get something to eat and to use the bathroom. She neglected her personal hygiene, showering less and less often. Her hair was often un-brushed and tangled. She refused to answer phone calls or see friends who worriedly came to visit her. She had even stopped speaking with her family members, dismissing them with little more than grunts and shrieks of anger. Except her father, the one person she could not refuse.
Mr. Greyson took full advantage of the fact that he had Hillary under his complete control. While Mrs. Greyson worried herself sick, he took pleasure knowing that Hillary had just given up, and in doing so, had given herself entirely to him, just as he wanted. She wouldn’t question him or resist or seek help from her mother or a school counselor.
Michael Greyson felt no guilt about destroying his daughter’s life. On the contrary, his sense of entitlement grew. Why shouldn’t he have his cake and eat it too? All his life he had had one tough break after the other. He grew up without a father in a small, dirty apartment. His mother had made no attempt to conceal her disappointment in him. She made it quite clear to him when he was very young that he was just a burden, someone she had to feed and clothe and provide shelter for, and that was as little as she did for him. She worked sporadic hours, waitressing at a greasy diner. It wasn’t until Michael was thirteen that he realized his mother had earned money in other ways as well.
Hillary_Flesh and Blood Page 2