Drowned In Silence

2. Sunday Service

Sunday Service

Dynah - Flashback

I’m jolted awake by a sharp sting on my face. It takes me a moment to process that I’m being hit. Upon opening my eyes, I see my father standing over me.

“Wake up, you dumb bitch,” he screams at me. His voice is deep, and his tattoos stand start against his skin. His shirtless body tenses as he slaps me once more across the cheek. “Good. You’re up. It’s Sunday. Let’s go.”

I rub the crusty sleep from my eyes and open them wider. I’m still in my dingy bedroom, blood smeared down my arm and the knife not far from my other hand. My body has new handprints etched into my skin, new colors forming around the edges of the deep bruise. I'm not sure how many more people came in last night, but they didn't wake me from my slumber, but at least I didn't have to listen to them. The sun peeks through the moth-eaten blinds, signaling that it’s morning, just in time for church.

Father hands me a shirt, which is only a dirty rose-pink sweater. I slip my arms through as he dresses me like a child.

“Good bitch,” he praises. The noise makes me feel like someone is shoving glass into my ears. “Arms down.”

I lower my arms and stand up. The sweater drapes off my body as if it were a dress. My malnourished body could be shoved in here four or five times, and it still might be too big. Having to push up the sleeves, I stumble a little. I’m lightheaded and woozy, but I know I won’t get to eat.

That’s another thing I hate about Sundays. They don’t feed me because I should be ‘filled by the consumption of Christ’s body and blood.’ I still don’t understand that reference. Why do I need to eat the body of Christ?

I didn’t get an education like normal people. After my parents pulled me from elementary school, I continued all my studies independently, sneaking out of my room after my parents fell asleep, down to the living room, and stealing dictionaries. Thankfully, I never got caught.

I wouldn't say I'm well educated in ‘society's norms.’ but I know I'm better off than most. I assume I know more than most my age, just from what I've overheard about teenage kids on TV.

His voice rings out into the stagnant room, “Meet us downstairs once you fix the rat's nest on your head.” He leaves and slams the door behind him.

After finger-combing my greasy black hair, I open the door and peek out. Sometimes, he will wait for me outside to make sure I don’t go places I’m not supposed to. Thankfully, today isn’t one of them.

I step out of the room and onto the hardwood floor. It has a ton of traveled-over planks that the nails have started backing out of. They catch the skin of my feet every so often if I don’t pay attention to where I’m stepping. They create little nicks and cuts in the bottoms of my feet whenever I try to leave my room. My toes quickly get sticky with all the gunk and wood-stain residue accumulated over the years. I tiptoe over piles of trash and boxes of unused decor that my mother once dressed up the house with.

“Hi, honey. Come sit with us,” my mother snickers at me as soon as I place my ass on the couch next to her. “I love you so much, always know that.”

I don’t reply, knowing any answer I could imagine would be wrong for her. My father sinks in beside me, taking up the space on the rest of the couch. He opens the little laptop that sits on the drink-stained coffee table and gets the program up and running. It’s prerecorded, so I still don’t know why I have to sit here and watch him speak about this Jesus guy and all of his random adventures.

Father's grimy hand slithers its way onto my thigh, resting like usual. He uses my leg like a xylophone, tapping away to an unknown rhythm. Mother grabs my hand, squeezing tightly. A sign that she is aware of what he normally does, yet she never stops him.

The program starts and I am welcomed to the fellowship by none other than my father. He is the leader, or pastor I think the term is, of this fucked up cult-like program. Bunches of people worship him and listen to his words, as creepy as he is. However, this week's service is a little worse than normal. He starts discussing ‘sheep’ and ‘shepherd’. Explaining how it’s an honor to be owned, to be glorified. The sheep is just a tool to be used and abused by the shepherd.

As he talks on the screen, my father’s hand travels further up my leg, his fingers barely touching my most private areas. My mother notices and lets out a small mewl. I turn my head to look at him and he smiles down at me, his toothy grin rubbing me the wrong way.

Wrong.

This is wrong.

He moves around on the couch and faces me.

This isn't normal, this isn't how Sundays work. What did I do wrong? Am I being punished? Why is he looking at me like that? What did I do to deserve this?

“Look at the screen, Angel,” he whispers to me, getting too close to my ear. His finger edges my clit, and I think I am dryer than the desert. Suddenly, he plunges a pudgy finger inside of me, curling it. It hurts more than I figured it would. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone not at least spit on me first. I try as hard as I can to stay still and to not move. I clench my eyes closed. “Open your eyes, and watch.”

I do as I’m told– holding back the gag that lodges itself in my throat. I want to puke, scream at him, something… anything. This has never happened before and I never want it to happen again. I’m okay with other men using me because I rarely see them again. I don’t have to look at their faces every day. This is my Father. The man who raised me.

“That’s it. Get wet for me.” He pushes me back, so I am slumping against the cushions. My mother gasps and lets go of my hand.

“Oh, honey. Yes!” She moans to my father. She relaxes into a puddle of bliss and shoves her hand down her pants. I can hear the lewdness coming from within her underwear as my father pulls up my sweater and spits on my bare pussy.

He adds two more fat fingers, pushing them hard inside me. I hold back a sob as tears fall down my cheeks.

“Yes, cry for me, bitch. Let me see those tears as I finger your pussy. Look at your mother– she's going to come just from watching me touch you.”

I let out a sob as I turn my head toward my mother before getting slapped for not listening.

“Oh, baby. His fingers look so good inside of you. I think-” She starts to moan loudly, and her legs start to shake. “I’m going to come, honey!”

“Yes, come for me, Audrey. Come for me while I make our child do the same.” Father demands. He adds another plump finger and uses his thumb to brush my clit. I try to close my legs, starting to fight them off as my pussy clenches, and I finally let out a gag.

“Don’t you dare puke. This is normal, baby. Just feel how he plays with you.” My mother's eyes sparkle and dilate. She is as high as a kite– it’s no wonder Father is doing this. She never lets him touch me like this. Only one other time, the only time she ever hit me. Mother blamed me for turning my father on.

Father flicks his dirty nail against my clit, and I can feel my insides tense up. No, god, no. Don’t make me come. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to live through this. He pushes his knuckles into me, almost punching me with his fingers. I try so hard to hold everything back, but my body doesn’t care. The floodgates open, and I shatter around his hand. I don’t moan but let out a cry.

“Don’t worry, this is the only time. Just revel in it, love it, you might not get another orgasm, this is the least I can do. Happy eighteenth birthday,” he whispers into my ear.

A cry that pleads for help.

A cry that makes the first sound in years.

A cry that will be the last thing that comes from my lips before I die.