Play Dead.

You change into a few extra layers of pajamas, hoping it will have some sort of effect. Turn off the light, run to your bed, and jump under the covers… Feel your heart beat crazily inside your chest.

The room is dark, the door locked, your bed growing warmer. Your big brown eyes are wide with terror as you hear him thumping down the hall in combat boots, drunken. You squeeze them shut, hoping he doesn’t stop, praying to God that he walks past your flowery door to the end of the house to puke in the toilet.

Daddy has nasty friends.

But the footsteps fall beside your door. You still taste the bubblegum toothpaste in your mouth. Now you’re starting to cry, and you jam your hands against your face, hoping to stop the leak. It never works. Your pillow becomes damp with tears.

Now, you hear tiny metal clinks against the doorknob�"a lock picker he is. A disgusting man who likes little redheads with big brown eyes and pale skin.

Within the minute, and a few grunts and angry exclamations later, the door creaks open. SSQQUUUEEAKKKK….. It croaks like an old bullfrog outside your window on a dusty summer night, except this is worse. You hear muffled thumps as he kicks his boots off; they land across the room.

“Still awake little girl?” he whispers, his mouth right by your ear now. You feel his whiskers brush against your hair as he draws away. A hand falls on your side, gently nudging you. You play dead. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?