Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

as I could and began to tell myself this wasn't happening. I didn't feel what I felt moving up between my legs; I didn't feel my legs being forced apart and I didn't feel Papa force himself into me. He groaned and bit down my neck just soft enough not to draw blood. I gasped and started to pull myself away, but Papa swung his heavy body, cast and all, over me, driving me down against the mattress. He grunted and pressed on.
    My cries were tiny, my tears quickly soaked up by the pillow and sheets. To me it seemed to go on and on for hours, when in reality it was only minutes. When it was over, Papa did not release me and he did not pull back. He held me just as tightly, his head against mine.
    "Warm now," he muttered. I waited and waited, afraid to move, afraid to complain. A short while later, I heard him snore and I began a slow journey to extract myself from his grip and slide myself out from under his dead weight. It must have taken me hours, for I was terrified of waking him, but finally, I was free enough to put my leg down and then slip out and away. He groaned and then started to snore again.
    I stood in the darkness, trembling, swallowing my sobs one after the other as each rose to the base of my throat. Afraid one would burst free and then another would follow, which would waken Papa, I tiptoed out of the room and into the dimly lit corridor. I took a deep breath and closed the door softly behind me. Then I turned to the right, thinking I would go to Mamma. But I hesitated. What could I tell her and what would she do? Would she understand? It could easily put Papa into a mad rage. No, I couldn't go to Mamma. I could go down to Vera and Charles, but I was too ashamed. I couldn't even tell Tottie.
    I spun around and around, confused, my heart pounding, and then I rushed into the room where all the old pictures and artifacts were kept. I quickly found my real mother's picture and, embracing it, squatted on the floor. There I rocked and cried until I heard footsteps and saw the thin light of Emily's candle part the darkness. In moments she stood in the doorway.
    She lifted her candle to let the light wash over me. "What are you doing in here? What's in your hands?"
    I bit down on my lips and sobbed. I wanted to tell her what had happened; I wanted to shout it out.
    "What is it?" she demanded. "What are you clutching? Let me see right now."
    Slowly, I revealed my real mother's portrait. Emily looked surprised for a moment and then studied me closer.
    "Stand up," she ordered. "Go on. Stand up." I did so.
    Emily came closer, lifting the candle and walking around me.
    "Look at you," she said suddenly. "You're having your time and you didn't prepare. What shame. Don't you have an ounce of self-respect?"
    "I'm not having my time."
    "Your nightgown is stained," she reported.
    I sucked in my breath. This was the time to tell her, but the words were stuck in my throat.
    "Put on a clean one and put on a sanitary napkin immediately," she ordered. "I swear," she said, shaking her head, "sometimes I think you're not only morally retarded, but mentally retarded as well."
    "Emily," I began. I was so desperate, I had to tell someone, even her. "Emily, I . . ."
    "I won't stand here in the dark another minute with you. Put that picture away," she said, "and go to sleep. You have much to do for Papa," she added. She turned quickly and left me in the darkness.
    I shuddered with the thought of returning to Papa's bedroom, but I was afraid to do anything else. After I changed my nightgown, I returned, hesitating in the doorway to be sure he was still asleep. Then I quickly crawled into my makeshift bed and pulled the cover over me, folding myself into a fetal position. There I cried myself to sleep.
    What Papa had done made me feel unclean, made me feel as if the stain was spreading through my body until it reached my heart. Not twenty, not a hundred, not a thousand baths would cleanse me of this darkness. My soul was tainted and blotched. In the morning when Emily saw me in the light of day, she would know I had been defiled. I would wear this stigma on my face forever.
    Surely, I told myself, this was just another part of my punishment. I had no right to complain. Every bad thing that happened to me now, happened for a reason. Anyway, to whom would I complain? The people I loved and who loved me were either dead or gone or sick themselves. All I could do was pray for forgiveness.
    Somehow, I thought, I had tempted Papa into doing a