His hand stroked the back of my head. I sat in the car as though it was my prison. In a lot of ways, I have been sentenced to a life sentence since the day I was born. A female born to a predator would never be safe. It took me years to figure out that’s why my mother hated me. She knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of me. So if she hated me, she could be the victim to this all. Often at night, I would hear her screaming at him about me. Each spat of venom ripped another layer of skin from my body. The scars were not physical, but the mental ones are always the deepest.
“Mary, you’ve fought me too long. You once were my little Princess. My baby girl with the pink bows in your hair, the ruffle dresses, and those little socks that mommy bought you. What do they call them?” he asked while pouring another shot bourbon over the ice cubes.
“Babydoll socks,” I whisper, my hands folded in my lap, eyes focusing on the floor of the limousine.
“Babydoll,” he slurred, his breath already laced with alcohol. “I don’t know why you always have to fight me on this. You know Daddy knows what’s best for you.”
The bile in my stomach churned from not just his touch, but the words that went with them. A little girl should love her father. I wish mine was dead. Sadly the beast will never die. Not as long as I have air left in my lungs.
“You don’t,” my words stopped, my eyes diverting to the window. The lights of the city now coming on to illuminate another night in the City of Angels. I use to love this time of night. Tonight would be the night that I learned to hate it. “You don’t love me. You never did,” whispering, I didn’t finish the sentence before I felt the hand on my cheek. His hand striking the side of my face, pushing me into the bulletproof glass of the window. Instantly I taste blood, a trickle escaping from the corner of my mouth. Once again he hit me. This time harder than in the past. I guess that’s punishment for leaving home.
“Don’t you ever fucking talk to me like that again. You’re nothing but a fucking whore. My daughter as god damn whore,” each word elevating his voice, he tossed back the shot, grabbing the bottle to pour another.
Tears flooding my face in a river of sins, it hurt, my face that is. His words, they didn’t affect me anymore. I had been called worse in the past. Nothing he could say would hurt me anymore. I am numb to the abuse. I think they call it Stockholm syndrome, but with me, I will never love him.
Slumping in the seat, my legs pulled to my chest in a defensive movement. I didn’t know if he would strike her again, and if his drunken tantrum was over.
The window between them and the driver rolling down, I looked up for the first time.
“Sir we’re at the hotel,” the drive speaking for the first time.
“If you so much as say a fucking word I will kill you myself. You will walk in the place like a Kennedy, not a fucking two-bit whore,” He spat, grabbing his daughters hair to reassure me he meant every word he said.
His words echoed through the limo, but just as he was about to reinforce his words, the door opened to the hotel drive, giving me one last glimmer of hope. William was in this hotel. If I could get away, even for a moment, I could get help. “I have to pee!”
“Hold it!” he growled.
“No, daddy, please. I gotta go. Please,” crying out, my voice a shrill to the drunk man’s ears.
“You fucking have two minutes. GO!” he screamed.