The Change

"Get out, you whore!" I shrieked, and then I was advancing, spitting, hissing, yelling profanities, "Get-out-get-out-get-out-get-out!"

Dad had sprung into motion. He stood, pulled on his discarded boxer briefs, and held out his hands as if trying to protect Emilia from a wild animal.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I screamed at my father, and then looked past him to Emilia.

Emilia with her pretty face and red curls. Emilia with her perfect, creamy, large breasts and their small, pink areolas. Emilia with her sweet little pubic mound and flat stomach.

Fucking Emilia Johnson.

"I HATE YOU!" I shrieked, "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! Stay away from me! I never want to see you again, you bitch! Get out! I hate you! You're a cunt! How dare you! HOW DARE YOU!"

Emilia gathered her clothes, and I made to leap at her and punch and kick and bite her. My dad grabbed my body, swung me up into his arms, and held me while I kicked and screamed and tried to reach Emilia.

Emilia made for the door.

She paused, turned, and her big pretty blue eyes filled with tears as she whispered, "I'm sorry, Georgie."

She closed the door gently behind herself.

Then she was gone.

My father set me back down on my feet, and stepped back to stare at me. The anger had not left me yet. Infuriated, I howled at him.

"You're horrible! I hate you also! How could you fuck her? How could you fuck Emilia Johnson? Why? You ugly piece of shit!"

My fists were on his chest, pounding at it, punching and inflicting as much pain as I could.

"You're a nasty, bitter old man who never loved me! I hope you rot in hell, Dad! I hope you never feel any ounce of happiness ever again!"

I was sobbing. My voice was thick with tears and sorrow and desperation and anger, and everything turned to a blur as I kept on screaming the ugliest things I could think, and as I kept on hitting my own father.

As if from a distance, his pleads could be heard. His apologies. His ragged voice.

I don't know how long we stood there like that. I've no idea how long Dad tolerated the onslaught. All that I can say is that it came as a shock when he finally snapped.

His hands locked around my wrists, and he held me so tightly it stung.

"Enough!" he yelled, and all at once he seemed to be a different man. Gone was the internal and feeble mound of jelly, and my lips closed and my eyes widened as he pressed me against his bedroom door.

He stooped down to stare into my eyes, and now he was the angry one. The hissing one.

"I am your father," he spat, and I felt the urge to shrink as his eyes bored into me, "I don't know who you think you're talking to. You seem to have forgotten who the parent is, in this relationship. My choices are my own, Georgette. They are not yours to make. And how dare you think you could ever speak to me like that."

My eyes glistened, and my lip curled in defiance.

"Maybe you deserve it," I whispered, "Because there's no love or affection in your heart for your own daughter."

Dad's grip on my wrists lessened, although his eyes remained hard and angry, "Things haven't been easy for me, Georgette. I do love you. You seem to be blaming me for the way our relationship has gone sour. But I'll have you know that it is certainly not easy to have to deal with a teenager who's constantly pouting, and throwing fits, and going on about how fucking awful her own life is."

Tears were openly running down my cheeks, now.

"I wish it had been you."

Dad seemed confused, and he quirked an eyebrow in question.

"What?"

"I wish it had been you," I repeated, and my voice became so quiet it seemed almost imperceptible, "I wish that mom was still here, and not you."

Dad jumped. It seemed as if an electric jolt had been sent through his body, and he pulled back as if I'd slapped him across the face.

Part of me wanted him to hurt. Part of me took pleasure in it.

The other part of me, however, throbbed in regret and agony as I watched my father retreat. He sat on the edge of his bed, pressed his elbows to his knees, and held his face in his hands.

I swallowed.

"Dad?"

He remained still and silent.

I have no idea what possessed me to do what I did, then. It was ludicrous. Insane. But perhaps, in that moment, my subconscious concluded it'd be the only way to salvage what was left of this broken father-daughter relationship.

I dropped my jacket to the floor. With tears still dribbling, and my face smudged with mascara, I approached my father and stood over him.

"Dad?" I repeated, and my fingers began unbuttoning my cotton shirt.

The guy seemed intent on ignoring me.

The shirt joined my jacket on the floor.

"Dad?" I nagged.

"What?" he said, and his voice was hoarse and tired as he removed his hands to stare up at me. His eyes bulged.

"What are you doing, Georgette?" he demanded, incredulous.

"Stop calling me that," I whispered, and our eyes locked as I clicked off my bra, "Call me something sweet."

Dad swallowed. He was at a loss.

"You said you love me," I said, and I stood there, my torso bare, despite all my insecurities about being too skinny.

"But you've shown Emilia more love than you've shown me in months," I continued, and kneeled between his knees.

"Is this what you want?" I demanded, and my hands were on his thighs, stroking and squeezing.

"Is this how you want to be loved, Dad?"

Dad's dark eyes were completely stunned. Like a deer that'd been caught in a pair of headlights. I kept on massaging his thighs, and began working my way up. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

He was tired. It felt good. He'd surrendered. Temporarily, at least.

I leant up, and both tenderly and gently pressed my lips to his. It was a sweet kiss. An exciting kiss. My body felt as if it had suddenly been set on fire, and I grew wet and hot.

It was so depraved.

His thin lips were soft. His stubble poked against my cheek. He responded, and his warm tongue met mine.

And then I pressed my hand to his hard cock, and squeezed through his boxers.

Dad's eyes flung open, and once again his hands locked about my wrists.

"No. No, Georgette," Dad shook his head, and his lips trembled, "Oh god. We can't, Georgette. This is... this is so fucked up. What the fuck are we doing?"

Dad's voice became hysterical, "What the fuck are we doing? No. NO."

"Daddy?"

Dad recoiled, and his face contorted into an expression of disgust.

I gaped.

"Is that how you feel?" I stood, "Disgusted, now? Fuck. What do you want?"

"Georgette, please... I..."

I grabbed hold of my shirt, and started pulling it on while storming out of the room and down the stairs. Dad followed a few seconds later, pulling on a white t-shirt and calling after me, "Georgette, wait. We need to talk about this, Honey. Where are you going?"

I raced out into the street, and I started walking furiously quickly. Dad's footsteps could be heard on the pavement behind me.

"Georgette!" he called, "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

I whirled, and bared my teeth, spitting and growling like a wild dog, "TO FIND SOMEONE WHO WANTS ME!"

An overhead streetlight cast an orange glow over Dad, and his dark hair glistened. His eyes were shadowed. He looked like a stranger.

I kept on walking.

"I'm sorry."

I paused.

"I'm sorry," Dad repeated, "For failing to be the father you needed me to be. I'm sorry that I haven't been stronger. I'm sorry, Darling. I'm sorry about tonight. I'm sorry about how... gah... how messed up everything is."

I stared down at the concrete sidewalk. I feared speaking, for I'd surely begin crying again.

"I miss your mother too," Dad said, and suddenly he was behind me and drawing me into his arms, "I miss the way things used to be. And I'm sorry they had to change."

His body felt warm and reassuring. It had been so long since he'd held me.

I pressed my face to his chest, and breathed in his scent. The fight had gone out of me. All I wanted - all I needed - was this. This love.

He scooped me up, and remained silent as I wept snot and tears into his shirt. It seemed an eternity before we were home again, and before Dad was carrying me up the stairs to my bedroom. He didn't bother with switching on the light as we entered, and despite what had earlier occurred, he gently laid me down and tugged off my jeans.

Then, entirely innocently, he pulled the duvet up over my body, tucked me in, kissed my forehead, and made to leave.

I grabbed hold of my father's sleeve.

"Wait," I whispered into the dark, and I watched as his silhouette stilled.

"Yes?"

"Stay with me, tonight?" I asked.

Dad hesitated. Then, he ruffled his hair with a hand, pulled aside the duvet, and settled in beside me. I pressed close to his body, and my lips settled against his cheek.

He lay on his back, and I lay against his right side. His right arm circled me, and we settled into a warm, tight cuddle.

"I've missed you," I said, and as our bodies relaxed, a sense of nausea began to flood back into my body.

I sighed. What a horrible, inconvenient time to feel ill.

Dad remained silent.

"I'm sorry," I went on, and I nuzzled his neck with the air of a playful animal, "I didn't mean what I said, earlier."

Dad's hand came up, and he stroked my curly, ashy hair with a firm touch.

He laughed.

"I suppose you and I are even, Kiddo."

"'Kiddo'?" I gently slapped his tummy, "When I asked you to call me something sweet, I didn't mean for you to start calling me that."

"What would you rather I called you?"

I ran my fingers over Dad's body.

He tensed.

I'm sure he knew what I meant by those little touches, although he chose to ignore this.

Breathing warm breath over his skin, I pressed my lips to his ear, where I scattered little kisses from his earlobe and all the way down his neck.

My lips changed their course, and travelled back up to his cheek, and his nose, and his forehead. I paused at his lips.

Dad held my jaw in his left palm, and he drew me in for a brief peck on the lips before hoarsely whispering, "Go to sleep, Darling. It's late."

I smiled.

Darling.

He had called me Darling.