Page 23 of Forgive Me Father

Lock your door.

So I do.

What does he know that I don't?

Does he know about my father's violent tendencies?

What did Aiden really tell him during confession?

Stumbling my way to my bathroom, I grab my phone from my dresser on the way in, being sure to lock the door behind me.

Outbursts like this from my father are always fueled by alcohol and a horrible week at work.

He’s never touched me like this.

Do I really know how far he’s willing to go?

He already seems to think Roman is going to turn me into the perfect, god-fearing woman he's always wanted me to be.

I need to find a way out of this.

I need to find a way to get Aiden out of this.

My mother might be able to turn a blind eye to what my father is capable of, but I won't.

Aiden does not deserve this.

I don't deserve this.

I turn the dial on the tub, letting the warm water fill with as many bubbles as I can, desperate to feel something other than the burning pain scraping like glass across my ass cheeks. Slowly dragging myself to my feet, I face the mirror and begin peeling off my clothes, layer by layer. I examine my body, a mosaic of scars and fresh cuts tracing up my arms, thighs, and sides, stopping near my breasts. Shades of purple and blue cloud my skin, with a nasty bruise already blooming around my neck from the vice grip my father had me in earlier.

Glancing at my phone on the countertop, I know how foolish it would be to call the police.

If they never believed my mother the few times she did call when my dad took it too far, they’d never believe me.

Sheriff Acosta locks hands with my father every Sunday.

Aiden and I are alone in this.

"What the fuck has my life become?" I mutter, no longer able to look at my reflection.

Crawling into the bathtub, I bite back the pain of the warm water touching my inflamed skin. Feeling the bubbles surrounding me, I settle into a soapy sense of relief. My mind begins to wander.

My father had taken his anger out on me.

Is that all I'm good for?

An outlet for men's pain.

The pain from that night tries to cloud my mind.

I feel his nails digging into my thighs as he tries to pry my legs open. His voice has a rough, uneven edge. Like sandpaper as he leans down to whisper in my ear. The smell of alcohol is heavy as he opens his mouth.

"I'll take it slow for you, Eden," He whispers. "I'll take it so slow, you'll be fine," He mutters, my eyes barely open, my arms next to my body, like dead weight.

"Eric," I sob, the farthest thing from ready to feel anyone's touch as I try to figure out why I can’t move.

Only moments ago, I’d been drinking with my roommate, and now, I lay sprawled across Eric's bed, his phone in hand, the light from his camera blinding me.