Going to school was the best part of my day, it got me away from my drugged up father. When I was 13, my mother died and left my father and me alone. At first it was okay, but when I was about 15 he started doing drugs. He would come home late and come into my room and yell at me. But then it became more than yelling, it turned into hitting. He started coming home more messed up than the night before, and things started getting out of hand.
The first night it happened, the night I changed, was the night he raped me. I remember hearing him come home and barging through the door. I heard him stumble into the counter, and I could hear him getting closer. My heart began to race as I prepared myself for what I thought was the worst, his daily routine, when he would beat me. But that night, he didn’t beat me. He stood me up, and grabbed my hand, he made me touch him. He pushed me down on the bed. I could feel his hand rise up my upper thigh, and I started crying. How could he do this to me, I am 15 years old, I am his daughter? I skipped school for a week or two until I felt like I needed to go back. And when I did, I felt like everyone could see what had happened to me, like everyone knew. Turns out, they didn’t, I was just paranoid. I remember sitting in my desk, sweating, my heart beating out of control, just counting down the few seconds I had left, dreading the moment I had to return home. The second that bell rang, my life was under his control. I had to walk down those halls, facing all those kids, trying my hardest to hide what happened.
Thank God I didn’t see my dad for about a week or so; he didn’t come home, didn’t call. I’m glad because I don’t know what I would have done. But then, he finally returned, Tuesday, around 8 o’clock. It was more than just him though; I could hear three other guys laughing with him. They were rummaging through the fridge, looking for beer or something, I’m sure. Then my dad called me out into the living room, I obeyed him, I didn’t want another beating or one of his late night rapes, so I just went. He made me sit on his lap, and I listened to them all talk, then my dad started touching me in front of those people. I tried to move his hand, but he was stronger than me. Those guys laughed as I struggled, and then my dad raped me again, but this time, it wasn’t only for his pleasure; it was for all four of them. He let them all touch me, every single one of them.
I couldn’t stop crying, I sat in my room drowning in my tears until finally I got the courage to stand up and pack my stuff. I ran away that night, I went to stay with my aunt. I told her from start to finish what happened. She couldn’t stand hearing this, we ended up going to court, and after the court orders were finished, I never saw him again. The moment he walked out in handcuffs is the moment he left my life for good.
About a month later, I got a pregnancy test because I started getting symptoms, and my aunt started to worry. Those few moments lengthened as I waited for that pregnancy test. My aunt stood by me, holding my hand, until the doctor came out. We both stood looking at him fiercely; he looked down at the sheet and handed it over to my aunt. I saw a tear roll down her face, as she dropped to her knees. I took the paper out of her hands and read out loud, “positive”; I started crying hysterically as my aunt grabbed hold of me, just rocking me back and fourth.
I am six months pregnant, and today is the day I find out if it is a boy or a girl. I don’t know what to do, or what is going to happen. All I know is that this is my father’s baby, when he raped me, he left me this. This thing, this baby, is something I can’t live with.