The day before I lost my innocence, a crisp breeze ruffled the bleeding leaves that crowned the trees in a kind of a hoarse whisper. The swing I was on creaked and the empty one beside me echoed it; but beyond that, there was silence settling over the world. Even a tomb could not be as silent as it was that day, in those few minutes when the sun was sinking below the horizon and night beginning to tinge the edges of the horizon. For a second, the silence stayed.
Then, the screen door creaked open and a small boy came hurtling out of the back door with the stumbling, scrawny weasel of a man that was our father in hot pursuit. Tears traced paths down his grubby cheeks, and even from the distance between us I could hear the sobs shaking his frail frame.
Before he made it to me, Daddy had caught up to him. I squeezed my eyes shut and kicked off, a halo of dirt surrounding me as I soared up into the night sky. I heard the sound of Daddy’s hands pounding on him, and wild squealing like a pig being led off to the slaughter. Later that night, I knew that Richy would crawl into my bed and hug me, and there would be bruises on him that hadn’t been there before.
I looked out of the window that night, silver moonlight making shadows on the floor. It was silent again, except for Richy’s snoring, and the pounding of my heart. There were bruises on the sky, it looked like. I knew they were just clouds, but still something about them reminded me of Richy. Poor Richy.
It wasn’t his fault he was retarded, of course. Or that Daddy was stressed out. He couldn’t help that Daddy was disappointed that he was the father of a kid who could do nothing but filch jelly from the cabinet and bang pots and pans together and grunt.
He never hit me, but he always hit Richy. When he looked at me, there was softness in his eyes that was never there when he looked at Richy, something that might have been love. I could almost forget how mean he was to Richy when he took me in his arms and held me close, the smell of cigarettes and sweat washing over me. But then, I’d catch that stench on his breath, and I’d know from the way he slurred his words that he’d been up all night consoling his poor spirits with beer. His chair in the living room almost looked like a throne with all those bottles piled around it, sometimes shining if the light hit it just right. He was a king, and, as he told me, I was his little princess.
I just didn’t know what that would cost me, or indeed the extent to which he loved me. I didn’t suspect anything would come of tomorrow but a boring Sunday school lesson and then the sermon that followed it, and maybe I’d get to watch in envy while the other kids got to go eat a family picnic after while I’d be lucky if Mama could scrounge up a meal.
The sky was bruised just like Richy as I kissed his forehead, lying down beside him.
I don’t remember what the boy had said, but I remember that look on his face. Like I was some bug he was pinching in between his fingers, and if I was lucky if he’d let me scurry a little ways before squashing me. For a while sat there in the church pew beside my parents, my mother who was leaning forward rapt and hanging on to every syllable, my father inspecting the chest-area of some lady's dress, and Richy, who had begun to crawl around the floor looking for people’s shoes to tie together.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and I dashed off towards the big double doors in the back. It looked like a mouth swallowing me as I plunged forward, the world a blur of gray hair, stiff clothes, and stained glass windows. I wrenched open the knob and, tripping over the hem of my dress, flew through the lobby, catching a glimpse of the church yard beyond. I could barely see through the curtain of tears filming my eyes, but I managed to make it to the bathroom and wrenched it open.
As soon as I was inside, I slumped down onto the tile. It hurt, but I hardly noticed because the pounding of my heart inside my ribcage hurt a lot worse. There was something about the church bathroom that I found comforting. Maybe it was the peach walls, a warm color in contrast to the cold, bleach-white interiors of the other areas in the church.
At first when I heard a gruff whisper say, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I thought I was just imagining it. Then, the voice repeated it again and I felt a warm hand settle on my leg.
I looked up to see Daddy there, leaning in real close. I could see the stubble on his chin and smell the alcohol on his breath. Bloodshot eyes and dark circles announced that he’d been up drinking late last night. I explained to him what the boy had said, scooting closer to him as though that alone would be enough to make all the problems in the world disappear.
I didn’t think it was odd for my Daddy to be in the girl’s bathroom. After all, there was no one else and he was here to comfort me. I didn’t think anything of the locked door. Or of the way he locked his lips on mine and whispered, “It’ll be okay, sweetheart. Daddy will make you feel better. I love you, and never forgot that? Oh God, I love you so much, sweetheart!”
Then, his hands were reaching for the hem of my dress, and his hand covered my mouth gently. I could taste the sweat on it and wanted to pull back in disgust and to shiver in fear, but I trusted Daddy so I listened to what he told me.
“Don’t say a thing, sweetheart. They wouldn’t understand.”
Then his hands had seized the hem fully and he was lifting it up.
“I won’t, Daddy. I won‘t”
And I never did. I never breathed a word to anyone that I’d lost my virginity to my father in a church bathroom. I was his princess, and he was the king sitting on his throne of bottles, and he’d never, ever do anything to hurt me.
Daddy, you’re hurting me! Daddy, stop it! I don’t like this! But it wasn’t on purpose, so I didn’t say anything. I just let him. Later that night, I knew I’d let him do something he shouldn’t have as I watched Richy eat his dinner, shoveling mashed potatoes in his mouth with his hands. Was it my imagination, or were there more bruises than there had been last night? I’m sure the skies were bruised again that night, and the next day it rained as though the world was mourning the death of my innocence, the death of my childhood.
