DADDYS HANDS

 

 

Beyond acts of nature,
past acts of no god, my
Daddys Hands,
were calloused and stained.
Typical of the cold hard,
manner, that possessed him.

The night a stranger beat me
up and raped me, my clothing was torn-(in an attempt to complete,
the sickening task).
Afterward, I was discovered-
hiding, in the apartment of
my best friend, (and his room-mate).
I was still hysterical when my
Daddys’ hands,
appeared, out-of-nowhere, (for the
first time, ever). My Daddy,
my Papa, the king of my-Dystopia;
didn’t tolerate tears. Especially
hysterical ones). But, I was
unable to hold them back.
I tried, to mop
the saline pool, from the
kitchen table, with my sleeve.
(It would have been rude
not to). Apparently
that night, the delicate matter
of wiping the tears, from my cheek,
was left to my father.The whole time, staring, at my face, in absolute
silence. He looked as though he
would murder, the pitiful-excuse-for-a-“man”. The “man”, who indulged
On the violent defile, of a fifteen
year old girl.

It was my Daddys’,
fifteen year old girl.

(A well practiced deviant; the
monster still wore the scent of
his other young victims,
when he was brought into the police station). The creeps paper trail was revealed and enlivened, in the wake
of my own tragedy.

I stared at my
Daddys’ hands;
unable to lift my head, for
the shame. Mechanical, yet thick, and
unyielding to challenge, his
knuckles were enormous-
toughened by, the elements, and
actions, fueled by rage, personal
insult and drunkenness. Both my
Daddy, and his hands were
perfectly suited to tasks,
born of necessity, (unspoken), deeds of un-notoriety. His old school model of honor, was uncompromising and
non-negotiable.
Stained with age, and strengthened
by years of laborious past times, my father was inured to hardships, far
worse, than poverty. His
thick skinned flesh, was
barely visible, through the permanence of grease, tar, and nicotine. These
top layers, (coupled with an angry
demeanor), made an impression on
everyone who met him. But,
it was the mystery-the morbid
curiosity, of what lay underneath;(what grandiose, disturbing deeds could cradle those stains on the surface)? It was this
uncertainty, that dispensed
fear and intimidation, to people
who deserved to know, his
exacting inclinations.

By the time I finished
evaluating the strength, within my Daddys’ hands,
my personal sense of safety, had returned. (As much
as it ever would).
My aspirations toward revenge,
and punishment, distracted me,
and slowed my heart. And, when
I finally looked up, I saw my fathers’ face. He had been transformed, into
a sympathetic and approachable
person. If I didn’t know better,
I would have thought ‘he felt
my pain’. With the calm, it was
only natural to be anxious-
nervous of the storm to come. Still,
I had never felt so safe, perhaps,
even loved.

To be conclusive, but
sadly, matter of fact; the love
and gentility lasted
(approximately), three days.

My childish delusions of justice, were
worsened by insult, when my
attacker-a-monster-a-guilty-repeat-offender,
was rewarded, for my
escape, before full penetration. He laughed in the face of my best friend, as he walked out of the courtroom.
I don’t know if
he ever paid
the $150 fine.
That was his penance,
for damaging….,
for sullying….,
(my soul,
my heart,
my grace)…
For taking the “little”,
From my “Daddys little girl”.

There isn’t a day that has gone by,
that I haven’t wished; my
Daddys’ hands
had got to him first.

FIN

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