when fathers are bad and daughters don't talk

Prologue

It started out innocent. I was only 11. I didn't notice anything except that my father was more affectionate than usual. Kisses to the cheek instead of the top of my head. A hand on the small of my back as we walked down the aisles at the grocery store. Goodnight hugs that lasted longer than they should have. I didn't notice it. I should have noticed.

When I turned 12, things got worse. I almost never heard my name from him.  Sweet nicknames like baby or pumpkin turned into beautiful or gorgeous. He would have his hands on me more, squeezing my hips. Kisses on the cheek turned to lips grazing lips. A peck, nothing more, nothing less. Every night, he sat in my room. "Why Lacy, you've gotten so big. You look so beautiful now. The boys will want you. You know that, right? So pretty. So grown." Except I wasn't. I was small, undeveloped. The boys at school never looked at me like that, so I passed it off as a simple case of over affection on his part. I shouldn't have overlooked it.

Years started to pass. I started to yearn for the attention my father showed me. The compliments he showered me in
I never liked how he touched my leg, how his hand gripped my thigh. But i didn't want to make him angry, so I would simply smile at my mother from across the table and continue to eat silently. I should have spoken up.

I'm 14 now. Still just a child myself, and yet I feel more adult than any girl should at this age. Physically, I am nothing more than a child, but I have seen and done more things than any child ever should have. I'm finally safe. Finally free. But at what cost? The cost of my sanity? The cost of my childhood?  I can still feel his hands sometimes. Laying there, with my eyes closed. I can feel his hands touch and grip at me- I can feel the weight of him leaning on my bed. The warmth of his breath on my neck as he whispers praises in my ear. I know he isn't there. But I can feel him- I can feel his presence. Sometimes I think I hear him talking, too. Especially on those nights. "You'll never escape me, Lacy. I'm always here. No man will ever touch you like I did. You're mine, forever. Do you understand me, Lacy? You can never leave me. Wherever you go, I'll follow you. You'll never escape."

I think I may be going insane. I fear the worst has yet to come. Has my story ended, or just begun? So with shaky hands, I will write you this story. This twisted tale of the awful fate of Lacy Hardgrove.