Daddy, It Hurts

Daddy, It Hurts

It wasn’t the first time we had an argument, but it was the first time we had a problem because I was going out with a boy. I was standing in front of the sink washing the dishes since daddy had cooked for us, and he was getting ready to go out with his friends.

I had just got home from school when we decided to cook and have dinner together. I just had the time to take off my jeans and switch for a more comfortable pair of cotton shorts, but I kept on the buttoned-down white shirt I liked. As it was long, it looked like I was wearing only that.

He was making me mad. I always understood him, and even though jealousy hit me at times, I encouraged him to go on dates. However, he was having a tough time letting me go on a single one. My dad was thirty-five, so, technically, he was young. My mom died giving birth to me when she was my age, and she would be thirty-two years old today. Therefore, I always thought he deserved to have the most understanding daughter ever. He had lost his high school sweetheart just like that and had to start caring for me instead of enjoying his life. But being always understanding was hard since my dad was moody all the time and angry. People say he was always like this and that my mom fell in love with the rebel he was in school.

She was a Brazilian immigrant, and they say she was hands down the most beautiful girl in our town. Tall and slender, she had long and wavy brown hair going all the way down to her butt. Every time I saw her pictures, I noticed how much I looked like her. The difference was, I’m short and have slightly bigger breasts, probably things I inherited from the Italian side of my dad’s family. I even kept my hair long as hers, and I loved it, even though it was a little complicated to tend to such long hair at times. I never met her, but it was nice to have something in common. Some kind of reminder that, once, I had a mom.

We had this massive argument because I wanted to go on a date the next day with a boy from high school, and he said no. I could understand that a handsome guy like him should go out and have fun, not only work to pay our bills. But, when it was about me, he was always that restrictive, and I was getting really angry for that reason. I had needs too. Why couldn’t he understand that?

So it got to a point when I called him a hypocrite.

He got instantly furious, more than usual. He stepped all the way from across the kitchen and to my side angrily, and I thought he would hit me for the first time ever since I was a little kid. So, I just stood still, my brown eyes big with fear.

But he stopped and sighed furiously. Then he seemed to have thought twice and, as he turned around, still looking me in the eyes, he slapped me hard on my butt. I gasped loudly.

The sound echoed through the kitchen, and I let the pan I held fall into the sink, making even more noise. Then, silence. I couldn’t move. He couldn’t move either.

He looked puzzled, trying to think of what to say. It was as if he didn’t have the intention of doing that. Like it came naturally.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he said, putting his thumb and index fingers on his forehead, like pinching his eyebrows. “I didn’t intend to. I used to do this to your mom. I just got carried away.” Then he thought for a second and looked ashamed, “Christ, and I shouldn’t have said that either.”

I kept looking at him, not knowing what to do or say. But, soon as he mentioned my mom, all the anger washed away.

“It’s ok, dad. It didn’t hurt. It just got me by surprise.”

“It is not ok. You wouldn’t understand,” he said, propping on his elbow over the counter beside the sink, his head down, worried.

Then, it sank in. “Got carried away,” and, “I used to do this to your mom…”

I remembered my grandpa, mom’s dad, who used to hate my father. While talking to me, he once let it slip that my father was an “evil, violent man.” My grandma almost killed grandpa for that. She scolded him, saying something like, “adults do whatever they want with their lives, your daughter included. Keep our granddaughter out of this.” I could say I understood grandpa, too, as Mom was only seventeen when she got pregnant with me. However, I was even younger now than she was when she died, and I already considered myself an adult, so I agreed the most with grandma. Whatever went on between my parents back then was their business… But I got curious.

“Dad, did you use to hurt mom?” I asked. “I mean, between you two, I’m not talking about domestic violence.”

At first, he seemed very surprised. Maybe by how casual it appeared for me to talk about something like that. Then, he looked at me, baffled and angry, as always.

“Carol, it’s better if you just shut up, and I go out for my drink,” he said, banging his hand on the countertop.

Somehow, it didn’t scare me. “Or what? Are you going to hit me again?”

“Carol!” He roared.

I felt a rush of adrenaline and goosebumps. I knew I was pushing him, but I didn’t know why. I felt like a weight inside of me was pressing against my most private part, down there, while my heart started to pump faster.

“You not answering is enough, I guess,” I said defiantly, returning to the dishwashing when I felt him grabbing me by the shoulder with one hand, and before I realized what he was doing, his other hand bashed against my butt again, hard. “AAAAUGH!”

“Shut up!” he yelled at me while I felt the stinging pain finally reaching my brain. It burned.

“No!” I yelled back at him, looking him in the eyes. He looked like a mad man, about to go even crazier.

SLAP!

He hit me again.

“HUUNGH!” I cried, my eyes starting to water.

“Shut the hell up!” He screamed in my face.

“N-NO!” I screamed back with a broken voice and instinctively held the edge of the sink with both hands.

SLAP!

“AAAAAUUGH!” I yelped. He was always hitting the same spot, the right part of my behind, with his big and strong hand. It tingled and stung. I put my thighs together, feeling my intimate inner parts contract, and a wave of arousal go through my whole body. Confused, I held back a moan, and as I didn’t know what else to do, I decided to feel angry as well. “FUCK YOU!”

“WHAT!?” He screamed. It was the first time I had said something like that to him. He grabbed me by the hair, making my head yank back, a vibrating sensation going down my scalp, neck, and all the way down my spine, and he started hitting me non-stop.

One. “AUGH!” Two. “AAUUGH!” Three. “OWWW!.” I screamed from the top of my lungs, but nobody would hear me, as our house was in the back of the lot and surrounded by a vast yard with lots of trees.

Tears rolled down my full cheeks. I trembled all over, but I realized that I wasn’t trying to make him stop; much the opposite, I was staying as still as possible so he could hit me, and I was almost sticking my butt out for him to have clear shots at my behind.

In the end, I lost count. Daddy slapped me until he couldn’t do it anymore, or until he regained his self-control, I wasn’t sure, but he was breathing hard, and so was I. He let go of my hair, and I could feel him looking at me for some time while catching his breath. I just looked down, sobbing, panting. It wasn’t what he did, and it wasn’t the burning pain. It was embarrassing to me.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.