Daddy's Little Girl

Daddy was later home than usual that night. Although I was too young to tell the time I knew because I would count down in my head the hours he was gone. The longer he was gone the more relieved I would feel because the more whiskey he shoved down his throat, the happier he would be, therefore he would be less angry with me. I never understood the things I did so wrong when I tried so hard to please him. I only ever wanted to be daddy’s little girl.

That night he didn’t come stumbling in until three in the morning. I had already received one harsh beating from him that night before he left for the pub so my bruised body cried out in relief that he would only knock me around a little. Just a punch and a kick or two.

I heard him before he even slammed the front door. He was singing loudly, his deep voice slurred as he swerved drunkenly along the pathway. He staggered into the living room where I watched anxiously from the sofa in the corner where I was supposed to sleep but rarely managed to. The fear and anxiety every night of what he would do to me this time meant I was never able to fall into peaceful sleep until after he came home and put more bruises on my small, defenceless body.

It wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time my life was like a fairy story. I was daddy’s little princess, or so he said. Then everything changed. It happened over a year ago when we were playing by the swings in the park. Nobody noticed little Jericho was gone until we heard the screech of wheels. Until we looked around and he wasn’t there. Until it was too late. Jericho died that day. My little brother died. Part of daddy died too.