Fourteen The Child
Fourteen
The Child
I watch him sleep the sleep of sheer exhaustion—the sort that comes after endless hours of pain.
The adrenaline of fear or pain will keep one wide awake for long hours.
It would be so easy for a victim to simply pass out, and that does sometimes happen.
But a true artist of pain knows just how far to go before that particular defense mechanism kicks in.
If you fail, there’s always the dash of cold water to get things going again.
These things I learned from the master. Now the tables are turned. I wonder what he will learn from me?
I smile. I have only begun to hurt him. Before he takes his final breath, he will know all the pain and fear I knew.
The pain, the fear, the uncertainty. It was ruthless in the beginning.
But I adapted. Like all things, with the passage of months and years, the child I was when he first took me began to change.
Time waits for no one, as they say. The changes in the human body as adolescence kicks in can be startling to those unprepared.
I hated it. Hated every part of how I looked .
. . of how my body was developing. I wanted to stay a child.
The world looks at a child as an innocent—no matter the things that happen behind closed doors.
A child is revered in many ways. A child is forgiven for their trespasses.
A child is the universal symbol of hope for mankind.
However hard I tried to stop it, my childhood was abandoning me, leaving me like the skin of a snake being sloughed off because it couldn’t stretch any farther. I was becoming an “it.” Not a child, not an adult. An it, his it.
Ultimately I became whatever he wanted me to be, whenever he wanted. That was my sole mission in life. He warned that no matter how much I changed, I would always be his. Until the end of time, I would belong to him. Strangely, this warning included the most comforting words he ever said to me.
Some changes presented a problem for his plans as well.
A child could easily pick the pockets of unsuspecting shoppers and pedestrians.
People were far more likely to toss money to a child.
I hated myself. Hated him for allowing these changes to happen.
He was, after all, all powerful, the ruler of my universe.
He should have been able to stop this disaster before it changed everything.
Except he couldn’t. And one day another change occurred.
One even more terrifying than the last. I screamed and cried.
He laughed at me, allowed me to huddle in fear for hours before he explained that this, too, was a natural progression of aging.
He didn’t actually explain why it was happening just that it was and that I could expect more.
I lived in new, abject fear of what might occur because of these changes.
He still took my body whenever he wanted.
That had not changed. Suddenly, his grunting and disgusting actions became reassuring.
This was my normal. Routine. Everything was okay no matter that I was changing.
I needed him to still want me, to do with me as he pleased.
It was the only gauge by which I could measure my worth to him.
I was terrified at the idea that he might decide he no longer wanted or needed me. What would I do then?
How would I survive?
My newest secondhand clothes quickly became too small. Shoes grew too tight almost overnight.
The more I changed, the angrier he became.
My fear expanded and undulated inside me, eating away at any semblance of confidence I had developed.
I was frantic to please him, to ensure my relevance in his shitty little world.
Not only did I do whatever he asked, I begged him to tell me more ways I could be useful.
That was when he started to use me to lure in the other children he wanted to play with.
I hated that part most of all. I hated that he turned to another child for what he had always taken from me.
I hated that they were cuter, fresher, and sweeter than me.
He told me this over and over, so it must have been true.
I hated him, hated the other children . . . hated me.
As the days dragged on, his frustration and anger with the changes happening to my body began to amuse me to some degree. I was his, he’d said so a million times. I would always be his. So, as far as I could see, he was stuck with this new me.
Inside my head where he couldn’t see or hear, I would laugh when he struggled to make me look more childlike. I just stood there letting him fight the battle to conceal the changes as if I were a life-size doll.
I even heard other men ask him about me. How much did I cost for an hour? This seemed to outrage him. He would growl and make threats at these men for saying such things about his child. Then he would take me home and rut into me until he wasn’t angry anymore.
My belief that his taking of my body and keeping me fed and warm meant that he loved me solidified each time he acted out his claim of possession.
We were a family. Slowly but surely I learned again to trust this illusion without question.
I had watched mothers and fathers with their children, and even though he was never as kind and gentle as those people, he took care of me, and for a child who knew nothing better, that was important.
No one else would do so. As if his confidence was the one slipping now, he reminded me over and over that no one would ever want me.
I was ugly with pimples popping out all over my skin.
Who would want such an ugly it?
He was right. I was grateful he wanted me.
Ultimately I learned something from the changes and his reactions to those changes.
I didn’t need to be scared anymore. He wasn’t going to give me to anyone else.
He wasn’t going to sell me or leave me no matter how many other children he played with.
In fact, since he had already done all those bad and hurtful things to me, there was really no reason at all for me to fear what he might do next.
Over the years I had survived the worst he could possibly do to me . . . or, at least, I thought I had.