The wet tile floor firm against my cheek.

If I could have drowned in my tears…

I would have removed my life vest without hesitation.

I shielded the truth by turning on the fan and shower water,

by locking the bathroom doors,

and by keeping this tale an undisturbed secret—

until today.

I can still hear the sound of my pleas.

They haunt my existence and well-being.

There I was barely able to speak,

words distorted by the choke in my voice,

a thirteen year old girl begging, desperately.

“Please don’t do this.”

“Please.”

“I am sorry.”

My throat closes up as I type this right now, as I reread these words before my eyes.

I have begun to reopen a wound that has never quite healed.

The blood resurfaces; as if I was experiencing the pain for the first time.

Have you heard that Band-Aids do not fix everything?

“Please.”

“It’s not over.”

“Please don’t do this.”

Threats and bluffs chew away at an innocent soul.

My fingernails dig into my skin, clawing away the fear.

Pink, raised lines. Liquid crimson seeps from the cracks.

It’s quite easy to manipulate those who once believed in Santa Claus.

And I am unable to find the will to lift myself from the floor.

I am weighed down by the what-ifs when all I want to do is ride my bike.

“No, no…please!”

“I am sorry.”

“Please don’t.”

I learned to crawl, then waddle, then run around the yard,

but I never mastered the art of walking on egg shells.

I’d clean them up and he’d use them to make breakfast;

my palate had not yet developed the morning desire for coffee.

And I was trapped in a sea of mad hysteria,

holding onto my frail sanity like a raft.

I tried to control his waves of emotion,

overcome his riptide pulling me under,

but I did not have power over his intentions and nature.

I over-analyzed every action, every step, every breath.

I was ashamed at myself for not being enough, enough for him to stay.

Typing this is rubbing alcohol cleaning a cut.

This is when the indestructible youth realizes Band-Aids can’t fix everything.

“I am so sorry.”

In fetal position, I am the adult tonight.

And my tale does not have an ending; some things in life never cease.

A child should not be worried about finding her father’s body

when her mode of transportation is still the school bus.