I Have Always Loved My Father

Author's Note: If you're the type of reader who won't tolerate anything less than a happy ending, then allow me to offer my apologies in advance and save you the trouble of searching for one in this story, because you won't find it here. My goal is to offer an alternative to the notion that "everything is fine," and to venture beyond idealistic fairytales in order to create characters who are three-dimensional, flawed, and have some basis in reality. "Happily ever after" will probably never have a place in any of my work, because it doesn't have a place in the real world. I'm not interested in writing children's books with zesty language and adult situations thrown in for good measure; I'm interested in taking pieces of everyday life and weaving them together for you to observe, no matter how ugly, twisted, or scarred. I hope all of you are able to appreciate what I'm trying to do here, and that it won't become necessary for me to have all of my characters skip off into the sunset in order for me to gain your approval. With that said, I hope you enjoy your read.

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I have always loved my father. In grade school I created a thousand finger-paintings in his image and wore many of my crayons down to nothing in an attempt to commit the beauty of his likeness to the dull pieces of my construction paper. He fit into my childhood fantasies with ease, because he was perfect in every way. His career as a senior partner at a prestigious law firm commanded the respect and adulation of his peers, and afforded him the financial freedom to spoil me rotten. My room was filled with toys from floor to ceiling, and there were three walk-in closets dedicated to storing my countless wardrobes, about a dozen for every season. As his only child and main woman in his life since my mother's passing, I was the sole beneficiary of his time and affection, and relished every second that he was able steal away from his office so that he could be there to wake me up in the morning and to tuck me back in at night.

In the summer he would overlook my bedtime so that we could stay up and watch the stars, him rocking gently in the porch swing with me in his lap. I would spend about an hour listening intently to the sound of my father's voice as he gave a name to the constellations that swam in the inky darkness above us, until the rhythmic beating of his heart and the warmth of his embrace lulled me to a peaceful sleep. It wasn't until my twelfth birthday that I began to notice how hard his sculpted muscles felt against the softness of my developing bosom, and how kissable his moist lips looked in the moonlight. As time wore on and the onset of puberty cleared away the remnants of my childhood and replaced it with a burgeoning adolescence, I knew that I loved my father more than I should. He was the color of rich honey in the spring, and a shade of pale wheat in the fall. His green eyes favored the calm waters of the sea, and his closely cropped jet-black curls were soft to the touch. Standing at 6'2' he was a sight to behold, his model good looks evoking a sense of longing in every woman that he came across. I was no exception, and fell victim to his deadly appeal.

The innocence with which I had daydreamed about my father as a child was lost to me as a young adult, and the lustful fantasies that lived in the confines of my mind filled me with such a deep sense of shame that I could hardly stand to look my father in the eyes. Whenever my thoughts were allowed the freedom to roam they always returned to him, his beautiful face and muscular body permanent fixtures in the dark space behind my closed eyelids. Each time I unwillingly imagined him touching me as a lover would, I'd silently curse myself and pray that no one had seen the sorrowful look on my face as I hastily wiped away a stream of tears. "Leave me alone," I'd whimper, hoping that the racy images of him moving deep within me would dissipate at the earnestness of my command, but was only more tortured by the fact that I could no longer convince the palpable material of my conscious thoughts to bend to my will. Unlike most people whose desire brought them nearer to the ones they longed for, my desire for my father pushed me further away from him until he nearly ceased to exist outside of my wayward imagination.

My father's busy schedule allowed me to avoid him with little effort, and on the rare occasion that he was able to reach me before I disappeared into the solitude of my bedroom, I was panic-stricken and anxious. He would draw me into a discussion about the day's events and encourage me to share details of my own before encircling me in his arms and kissing me hello, goodbye or goodnight. If he ever noticed how my body shrank away from his touch or how my voice caught in my throat as I stammered out an excuse to get away, he never mentioned it. Sometimes I thought I saw pain registering in his eyes whenever I broke free of his embrace in favor of spending my time alone, but I could never stare into their beautiful sea-colored depths long enough to be sure. Instead I would dart away as quickly as my feet would carry me before locking myself inside my spacious bedroom, knowing all the while that even though I had closed my door to him, he would be there waiting for me in my dreams.

On the eve of my eighteenth birthday I sat alone in our garden, the sweet aroma of freesia and lilac perfuming the crisp night air. I grabbed a fistful of soil and let it sift through my fingers as I began thinking of ways to kill myself. I plucked a rose from its bush and laid flat on my back, my soft hair spreading out in a fan around me.

"What's the best way to die?" I asked the rose, examining it in the moonlight.

"I could steal daddy's gun and shoot myself in the head, but that would be too messy." I said, turning the flower's stem gently between my thumb and forefinger.

"I could take sleeping pills and chase it with a bottle of liquor, but then I might live," I sighed, fondling the rose's soft petals. My thoughts suddenly turned to my father, and how broken he would be when he discovered my lifeless form. My vision became blurred with tears and I looked away from the single rose in shame, as if the beautiful flower were capable of recrimination

"You might think I'm being cruel little rose, but you don't know how much I suffer. In my head he's my father, but in my heart he's a man, and I'm afraid those two parts of me will never agree. I fantasize about him everyday, and I dream of him every night. I ache for him, and it drives me to do things to myself...to touch myself in places..." I drifted off for a moment, reliving the many nights I had spent pleasuring myself to my father's image.

"But then I remember his piggy back rides and the way he used to sing to me when I was sick, and I'm ripped apart by guilt. He loves me with every fiber of his being, but it still isn't enough. I want more from him, and I would sacrifice all that we've ever meant to each other just to get it. I'm a monster," I sobbed, my tears falling softly on the ground beneath me.

"In time my father will forgive me for committing suicide, but he would never forgive me for loving him in such an unusual way. I would rather he grieve for me for the rest of his life than hate me for the rest of mine. I hope you can understand little rose," I said, touching the lovely flower to my lips before placing it back in its bush. I grabbed another fistful of the damp earth before deciding on a way to return to it.

I took advantage of the fact that my father would be working late and grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen. I brought it upstairs to my bedroom and sat at the edge of my bed, laying five heavy bath towels at my feet. I nervously licked my lips and held the knife up to the light, a chill going down my spine as the light glinted off the tip of the blade's cold, sharp edge.

"Forgive me Daddy," I whispered before plunging the knife into my left wrist. I ignored the pain that exploded in my arm as I jerked the blade upward in a swift vertical motion. Nauseated by the sight of my own blood as it spouted from my torn flesh, I quickly slit my right wrist in the same fashion before vomiting all over the bath towels that were meant to catch my blood. I doubled over in pain and plummeted face first off the edge of my seat, a sickening thud echoing throughout the room as my head connected with the wooden floorboards. As they had always been, my last thoughts before closing my eyes were of my father. The memory of his smile provided me with a sense of calm as I lay there dying, and I welcomed the impenetrable darkness that encircled me with open, bleeding arms.

My father's face had been the last thing I saw before I succumbed to a deep, dreamless sleep, and it was the first thing I saw when I awoke in a hospital bed the next morning.

"Nila," he breathed, gently brushing loose strands of hair away from my face and kissing me lightly on the lips. He brought my limp hand up to his cheek and held it there, tears of relief spilling from his tired, puffy eyes. I could tell that my father had spent the night at my bedside, because his normally clean-shaven face was covered in stubble, and the crisp white dress shirt and perfectly ironed slacks that he wore to work the previous morning were wrinkled and stiff with my drying blood. I stared at the huge red stains covering his arms, chest, and legs, and I knew that my father had been the one to snatch me away from the stillness that settled briefly over my dying body. My eyes moved from his stained clothes to my bandaged wrists, and I wondered how he had managed to reach me in time. As if reading my thoughts, he gave my hand a gentle squeeze before filling in the details of how I had survived.

"I took the night off because I wanted to surprise you. I felt terrible about working such long hours and leaving you at home alone, so I was going to take you out to dinner in order to make it up to you. Thank god I came back when I did; the doctor said if I had found you a second later you would've bled to death." Thinking of how close he had come to losing me weighed heavily on him, and it sent him into a bout of heart-wrenching sobs. Knowing how deeply I had hurt him made me hate myself even more, and I wondered if I wouldn't have been better off losing the life that he had worked so hard to save.

"Daddy...I'm sorry," I croaked, my voice scratchy and hoarse as I struggled to speak. He lifted his head at the sound of my voice, and the pain in his eyes brought me to tears.

"Why'd you do it Nila?" he asked, placing a hand on each side of my face and wiping away my tears with his thumbs. I stared up at the ceiling and refused to answer him, chocking back the truth of my well-guarded secret like a mouthful of bile.

"I swear to you baby, whatever it is I'll fix it. But I can't do anything unless you tell me what's wrong. Nila please," he begged, pressing his forehead against mine so that I was forced to meet his gaze.

"I don't want to hurt you," I whispered, closing my eyes so that I wouldn't have to see the pained look on his face.

"Nothing you say or do can ever hurt me as much as this," he said, gently touching the white bandages that covered my wounds.

"You wouldn't understand," I said. "And even if by some miracle you did understand, you wouldn't be able to accept it." A serious expression came over his face, and he hooked his finger underneath my chin and turned my head until I had no other choice but to look at him.

"Try me," he said. Although his clothes were stained and his face was haggard, it did nothing to diminish his astonishing good looks. I felt a familiar stirring in between my thighs as I stared at him, and it took every ounce of my strength to keep my fingers from venturing underneath my bedcovers right there in front of him in order to satisfy my need. Knowing from past experience that I would never be able to fight the growing sense of urgency in my quivering body, I leapt out of the bed and nearly ripped the IV out of my arm in a mad dash for the privacy of the bathroom. I managed to slam the door and lock it behind me before yanking my underwear halfway down my thighs and sitting with my legs spread on the toilet seat. I leaned against the porcelain as my fingers worked feverishly beyond the swollen lips of my wet, warm vagina. When soft moans began to push their way out of my open mouth, I leaned over and turned on the water in the bathroom sink, hoping the sound of the splashing water would be enough to drown out my mounting pleasure. "Daddy...Daddy...Daddy" I panted.

I closed my eyes and imagined him lifting me up from where I sat and wrapping my long legs around his waist. In my mind, he pressed my back against the bathroom wall and kissed me passionately before yanking my hospital gown up over my hips. He pulled my panties all the way off and began to finger me while exploring my open mouth with his tongue. When sweet juices flowed from my warm center onto his hand, he unzipped his slacks and pulled out his fully erect penis. He teased me by running the head over my throbbing clit until I begged him to put it inside me. I reached down and wrapped my hand around his long, hard shaft, a sharp gasp escaping my lips as I pushed him in as deep as my tight space would allow. He smiled at the boldness of my action and began fucking me against the wall, gradually pushing more and more of himself inside me with each thrust until every inch of him had disappeared. I dug my fingernails into his back as he moved within me, taking me apart with the smooth motion of his hips. He was gentle at first, but by the time my body had grown accustomed to his incredible length and girth, he had grabbed me firmly by my small waist and was slamming into me with such force that I nearly fainted. Suddenly my entire body grew tense and my legs began to shake. Sensing that I was about to climax, my father grabbed a fistful of my wavy hair and quickened his pace. "Cum for me baby," he whispered, pumping faster and harder until I threw my head back and screamed.

The sound of my own voice startled me back into consciousness, and I looked down to see that a combination of my sweat and nectar had flowed like a small river down my trembling thighs. I snatched a wad of toilet paper off the roll and wiped myself clean before pulling up my panties. I slumped against the toilet seat as the ache in my body subsided, and jerked upright when I heard a loud knock on the door.

"Honey, are you alright?" my father asked, his voice filled with concern. The depravity of my actions condemned me, and I was only able to offer a string of incoherent sobs as a reply. I collapsed onto the cold floor, tears pouring from my eyes as I hugged my knees to my chest. "Nila come out of there!" he yelled, banging on the door so hard that the wood splintered beneath his heavy hand. When I didn't obey him, he told me to move away from the door before breaking it in with his shoulder. The door flew off its hinges, and my father stood there looking bewildered as I lay sobbing at his feet. Wordlessly, he scooped me up and cradled me in his arms, rocking me gently back and forth until the last of my tears had fallen. He stepped over the broken door and carried me back into the room, easing himself down on the chair by my bedside with me in his lap. He stroked my long hair and held me close to him, evoking a sense of calm in my troubled soul. My father looked down at me with his sad green eyes and began to sing to me in French, his deep baritone voice sending chills down my spine with the beauty of its melodic, haunting pitch.

"Tais-toi, mon bébé, dors tranquille avec ton papa, oh, mon cher bébé, dors tranquille." He sang the song to me again in English for my benefit, knowing that the meaning of his words in French would be lost to me.

"Hush thee, my baby, lie still with thy daddy, oh my dear baby, do lie still." Forgetting the guilt that had consumed me only moments before, I looked up at my father and smiled.

"Where did you learn to speak French Daddy?" I asked, sounding like the awe-stricken five-year-old that I had once been before my father and I had grown so far apart. He returned my smile and got a faraway look in his eyes, as though he were watching his past unfurl from the corners of his mind.

"My grand-mère—or grandmother—taught me the language when I was a young boy. We lived together in New Orleans, and she despised the common dialect that was used among our neighbors. She referred to it as an abomination and was determined that I learn to speak French properly. Much to her chagrin I didn't share her elitist views, and I utilized both standard French and Creole throughout my childhood and the majority of my adolescence. But once I finished high school and moved away to college, English became my principal language." I ran my fingers through my father's short, soft curls, enjoying the peaceful moment that we shared.

"Happy birthday sweetheart," he said, kissing me on the back of my hand.

"Say it in French!" I begged, wanting to hear again the lovely sound of his voice as he spoke to me in a foreign tongue.

"Bon anniversaire, chérie." I clapped my hands together and squealed in delight, and my father seemed to take pleasure in my lightened mood.

"Je t'aime," he whispered, kissing me softly on my forehead, nose, and lips.

"I don't know what that means Daddy, but I like the way it sounds," I said, blushing under the intensity of his gaze.

"It means 'I love you,' and I do. You're my most precious gift, and I would die if you ever left my side. When I lost your mother, I was devastated. But if I lost you, it would kill me. Do you understand?" he asked.

I nodded my head, guilt pressing down on my shoulders. "I'm sorry I've hurt you, but I didn't feel like I had a choice." He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was soft, his words lilting.

"The reason why you cut yourself...does it have something to do with me?" he asked.

"Yes." I said, unable to lie to him.

"Have I made you unhappy?" I shook my head no.

"Are you angry with me?" Again, I shook my head.

"Do you want something from me?"

My silence was a sign that he had guessed correctly, and I knew from the glimmer of hope in his eyes that he was aware of how close he had come to the truth. For a brief moment I considered telling my father everything. I was too tired to engage him in a tug-of-war over my thoughts, and it was only a matter of time before my ugly, twisted desire revealed itself in spite of my repression. I opened my mouth and was ready to free myself of the heavy burden, but the words died in my throat. My father stroked the sparse stubble on his chin let out a deep sigh, signaling his frustration.

"Honey this is serious. Whatever it is that's bothering you has the potential to send you over the edge, and it would have done just that if I hadn't been there to intervene. Is that what you want?" he asked. I didn't offer a response, because he didn't need one. My bandaged wrists were a glaring reminder of just how far I would go to keep my secrets to myself. He gave me an incredulous look before shaking his head and flashing a row of his gleaming white teeth in a half-hearted smile.

"I see that your mother's beauty isn't the only thing you've inherited. She somehow managed to pass along her stubbornness too," he said, hugging me.

"When they finally allow me to bring you home, there are going to be some changes. I'm going to reduce my workload so that I can spend more time with you, and I'm going to stop accepting my role as a bystander in your life. Okay?" he said, holding me at arms length so that I could meet his gaze.

"Okay Daddy," I smiled, throwing my arms around him and squeezing him tight.